v     hook  ^  P"         "r    the  last  date  stamped  below 


SOUTHERN  BRANCH 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

LIBRARY, 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIF. 


L/Ub'tu-  m^c^c. 


WILLIAM  BLACK 


NOVELIST 


31  3St0grap!)p 


BY 


WEMYSS     R  E  I  D 

AUTHOR   OF    "MEMOIRS   AND   CORRESPONDENCE 
OF   LYON    PLAYFAIR  " 


43204 


HARPER   AND    BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS 
NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON    MCMII 


••««••;•"•       A«»            «••                a               »"•  e      c      e     •    *  ( 

•  ••»•••-• *           ••    'a     .  •  •        •    ♦•*   *    I 

•         etc        «»     h      »      *«°            •    6     «••     •         •     «  c  e                  «         c              •  •           •     •        «       4 

«      •    .*       •      •         •            »•     •     #           •      o        e»  fee    •     e    «««  «       •        i 

*      •       »•     e      e    «        i    t      •     •-«           •      •    ¥     •  •  «©    dee  ti          e       *.    ' 


Copyright,  1902,  by  Harper  &  Brothsrs. 


<4#  rights  reserved. 
Published  April,  1902. 


THESE  RECORDS  OF  THE  LIFE 
OF 

WILLIAM    BLACK 

ARE  INSCRIBED  WITH  AFFECTION  AND  RESPECT 

TO 
HIS   WIFE 

EVA   WHARTON   BLACK 


Zfy 


: 


PREFACE 


I  HAVE  to   acknowledge   with   gratitude  the 

help  I  have  received  from  many  of  William  Black's 

v   friends  in  preparing  this  memoir.     The  freedom 

'w    with  which  they  placed  at  my  disposal  the  letters 

they  possessed  calls  for  my  sincere  thanks. 

To  Sir  Robert  Gififen  and  Mr.  E.  D.  J.  Wilson 
I  am  specially  indebted   for  their   kindness  in 
supplying  me  with  their  personal  recollections 
of  Black  in  his  early  days.     I  should  like  to 
}  bear  adequate  testimony  to  the  debt  I  have  in- 
J  curred  to  Mrs.  Black,  his  wife,  and  to  Mrs.  Morten, 
his  sister,  in  writing  these  pages;  but  I  fear  that 
no  words  that  I  could  use  here  would  sufficiently 
5^    express  the  extent  of  my  obligation  to  them. 

London,  March,  1902. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I 

BIRTH   AND  EARLY  YEARS 

Introduction — How  the  Public  Came  to  Take  an  Interest  in 
William  Black— His  Birth— His  Ancestry— Celtic  Blood— His 
Father — School-days — Early  Ambition — Death  of  His  Father — 
First  Contributions  to  the  Press — Some  Early  Friends — Youth- 
ful Poems  —  James  Merle  —  A  Romance  in  His  Own  Life — 
Last  Days  in  Glasgow Page  I 

CHAPTER   II 

BEGINNING   OF  LONDON  LIFE 

He  Goes  to  London — Robert  Buchanan — Clerk  in  Maitland, 
Ewing  &  Company's  —  His  Love  of  Children  —  The  Morning 
Star— Work  on  the  London  Press — Marriage  to  Augusta 
Wenzel— Death  of  His  Young  Wife— The  Seven  Weeks'  War 
— Sympathies  with  German  Life  and  Character — Air.  E.  D. 
J.  Wilson's  Reminiscences — Literary  Society — The  London 
Review — The  Whitefriars'  Club — Love  or  Marriage — In  Silk 
Attire — Kilmeny — The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane — The 
Daily  News— William  Barry— Death  of  Black's  Son  .  Page  31 

CHAPTER  III 

"A  DAUGHTER  OF  HETH  " 

The  Writing  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth— Coquette— The  Real 
Whaup— Letters  to  Mrs.  Kroeker— The  Popular  Verdict— A 
Dazzling   Success— Black   in   Society—  The   Strange  Advent 

vii 


CONTENTS 

ures  of  a  Phaeton — The  Real  Trip — Friendship  with  Artists 
— At  Camberwell  Grove — A  House-warming — Engagement 
to  Miss  Simpson — Dedication  of  The  Phaeton — Visit  to  the 
Hebrides — A  Curious  Episode — Mrs.  Kroeker's  Reminiscences 
— A  Valentine — A  Princess  of  Thule — Death  of  William 
Barry1 Page  75 


CHAPTER  IV 

"MADCAP   VIOLET" 

His  Celtic  Temperament  —  Innocent  Love  Affairs  —  Marries 
Again  —  The  Reform  Club  —  Talk  at  the  Luncheon  -  table — 
Three  Feathers — Airlie  House — An  Evening  Walk— Madcap 
Violet — Black's  Mysticism — Visit  to  United  States — Newspaper 
Interviews — Curious  After-dinner  Speech — Green  Pastures  and 
Piccadilly— A  Portrait  by  Pettie — Macleod  of  Dare — Winter  Jour- 
ney to  Mull— Mr.  Wilson's  Reminiscences  .     .     .     .     Page  125 


CHAPTER  V 

BRIGHTON  LIFE 

Effect  of  Writing  on  the  Nervous  System — The  Artist's  Tribute 
to  Macleod  of  Dare — Black  and  the  Reviewers — His  Defence 
of  Tragedy  in  Fiction — Letters  of  Remonstrance  from  Admirers 
— Leaves  Camberwell  Grove — Rooms  in  Buckingham  Street — 
Night  Talks  over  the  Thames — White  Wings — Goes  to  Brighton 
to  Live— Paston  House— The  Cliff  Walk  to  Rottingdean— The 
Old  Pier — Mode  of  Work — The  Sense  of  Humor  in  the  Low- 
land Scot — Visit  to  Leeds — Shandon  Bells — Dedication  to 
Barry's  Memory — President  Garfield's  Message  to  Black — 
Visit  to  Egypt  —  Nature  -  painting  in  the  Highlands  —  Mr. 
Bradbury's  Reminiscences  ....  .....   Page  173 

CHAPTER  VI 

AMERICAN  FRIENDSHIPS 

American  Friends  in  London — Yolande — Judith  Shakespeare — 
Black  as  a  Salmon-fisher — Mr.  Marston's  Reminiscences — 
Loch  Naver — The  Novelist  on  His  Methods  of  Work  and  the 

viii 


CONTENTS 

Worth  of  His  Critics— Letter  to  His  Niece— His  Love  of  Family- 
Letter  to  His  Daughter — Friendship  with  Miss  Mary  Anderson 
—Mad  Pranks— Black's  First  Appearance  on  the  Stage— And 
His  Last — An  Imaginative  Reporter — Strange  Adventures  of 
a  Houseboat — Mr.  Bowker's  Reminiscences — Sabina  Zembra — 
Suffering  from  the  Vagus  Nerve Page  250 


CHAPTER  VII 

LAST  YEARS 

Middle  Age — Continued  Prosperity — A  Record  of  Work — In 
Far  Lochaber — James  R.  Osgood — Failing  Health — Donald 
Ross  of  Heimra — The  Copyright  Controversy — Mr.  Kipling's 
Poem — Loss  of  Friends — The  Royal  Academy  Club — Last 
Visit  to  the  Oykel— Serious  Illness — Wild  Eelin — A  Question 
of  Taste — Black's  Views  on  Religion — Hereditary  Influences 
— Revolt  from  High  Calvinism — The  End  of  His  Work — Last 
Appearance  at  the  Reform  Club — Messages  of  Comfort — Death, 
December  10,  1898 — The  Black  Memorial  Beacon    .    Page  303 

INDEX Page  349 


WILLIAM  BLACK,  NOVELIST 

CHAPTER  I 

BIRTH  AND  EARLY  YEARS 

Introduction — How  the  Public  Came  to  Take  an  Interest  in 
William  Black — His  Birth — His  Ancestry — Celtic  Blood — His 
Father — School-days — Ear^  Ambition — Death  of  His  Father — 
First  Contributions  to  the  Press — Some  Early  Friends — Youtb- 
ful  Poems  —  $ames  Merle — A  Romance  in  His  Own  Life — 
Last  Days  in  Glasgow. 

IN  the  summer  of  1871  the  reading  public  of  Eng- 
land found  themselves  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  novel 
and  unexpected  pleasure.  A  story  called  A  Daugh- 
ter of  Heth  had  been  published  anonymously,  and 
had  won  almost  instantaneous  recognition  and 
popularity.  It  was  a  simple  story,  almost  slight 
in  its  plot  and  construction,  and  dependent  upon 
two  qualities  only  for  the  success  which  it  attained 
so  quickly  and  fully.  These  were  the  charm  and 
delicacy  of  the  portrait  of  the  chief  character,  a 
French  girl  suddenly  transplanted  into  a  Scottish 
household,  and  the  fine  literary  style  which  the 
writer  of  the  story  had  at  his  command.  Every- 
body  who  read   the   book — and   almost   everybody 

1 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

did  read  it — was  fascinated  by  it.  No  more  touch- 
ing or  beautiful  character  than  that  of  the  heroine 
had  been  offered  for  many  years  to  the  readers  of 
English  fiction.  She  took  instant  possession  of 
the  sympathies  of  all  who  became  acquainted  with 
her,  and  in  a  surprisingly  short  space  of  time  she 
became  the  rage.  But  it  was  not  only  the  public 
that  liked  A  Daughter  of  Heth  and  proclaimed  its 
liking  in  an  unmistakable  manner.  The  critics 
also  both  liked  and  admired,  and  gave  expression 
to  their  feelings  with  unwonted  frankness.  The 
Saturday  Review,  which  was  at  that  time  a  terror 
to  the  literary  novice,  was  in  particular  conspicuous 
by  the  warmth  of  its  appreciation  of  the  unknown 
writer's  story.  If  it  ever  showed  enthusiasm  in 
criticising  a  novel,  it  did  so  upon  this  occasion. 
It  followed,  naturally  enough,  that  men  began  to 
inquire  as  to  the  identity  of  the  new  novelist,  who 
had  not  even  sought  to  veil  his  real  name  under  a 
pseudonym,  but  had  sent  his  book  into  the  world 
to  speak  for  itself  in  the  unabashed  nakedness  of  a 
nameless  title-page.  The  usual  guesses  were  made, 
and  they  were  just  as  wide  of  the  mark  as  such 
guesses  generally  are.  For  a  few  months  the  secret 
was  kept,  in  spite  of  the  eagerness  of  the  public  to 
unravel  it ;  but  at  last  it  came  out,  and  along  with  it 
the  public  learned  a  pretty  little  story  of  the  ways 
of  the  literary  world  which  had  the  rare  merit  of 
being  true  as  well  as  amusing. 

The  reason  for  the  anonymous  publication  of 
A  Daughter  of  Heth  was  the  fact  that  its  writer 
wished  to  get  an  unprejudiced  verdict  from  the  crit- 

2 


INTRODUCTION 

ics,  and,  above  all,  from  the  critic  who  dealt  with 
the  novels  of  the  day  in  the  Saturday  Review.  In 
previous  ventures  in  fiction  he  had  been  severely 
handled  by  that  journal,  and,  rightly  or  wrongly, 
he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  some  feeling 
of  prejudice  existed  against  him  on  the  part  of  its 
conductors.  In  this  belief,  he  resolved  that  his  new 
story  should  be  sent  fatherless  into  the  world  in- 
stead of  being  weighted  with  his  name  upon  the 
title-page.  I  have  already  told  how  completely 
the  innocent  stratagem  succeeded,  and  how  warm 
was  the  welcome  which  the  Saturday  Revieiv  gave 
to  the  work  of  a  man  whose  earlier  efforts  it  had 
treated  with  a  somewhat  savage  scorn.  When 
this  story  became  known  it  was  generally  enjoyed 
by  the  public,  and  the  feeling  of  interest  in  the  author 
of  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  apart  from  the  interest  felt 
in  his  story,  perceptibly  increased. 

His  name  had  been  given  to  the  world,  and  it 
was  known  that  he  was  a  young  Scotsman  named 
William  Black,  who,  after  various  experiences  in 
London  journalism,  had,  shortly  before  the  pub- 
lication of  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  joined  the  editorial 
staff  of  the  Daily  News.  The  writers  of  literary 
gossip  were  then  neither  so  numerous  nor  so  free 
in  their  handling  of  living  persons  as  they  have 
.since  become;  but  Black  could  not  altogether  escape 
their  attentions  when  it  became  known  that  he  had 
written  the  most  successful  novel  of  the  year.  They 
made  haste  to  describe  his  appearance  for  the  benefit 
of  readers  who  had  not  seen  him  in  the  flesh.  Some 
of  these  descriptions  were  sufficiently  amusing  and 

3 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

inaccurate.  The  best  failed  lamentably  to  convey 
any  idea  of  the  man  himself.  That  he  was  of  middle 
height,  slight,  and  compact  of  figure;  that  he  had 
dark-brown  hair  verging  upon  black,  and  remark- 
ably fine  brown  eyes;  that  he  dressed  with  great 
care  and  neatness,  and  that  he  was  resolutely  silent 
in  mixed  society,  seemed  to  be  the  points  upon  which 
these  descriptive  writers  were  agreed.  They  were 
unquestionably  the  distinguishing  points  of  the 
outward  man  as  he  was  visible  to  strangers,  and 
they  conveyed  as  vague  a  sense  of  Black's  true 
personality  as  a  wax  effigy  at  a  fair  does  of  the  man 
whom  it  is  supposed  to  represent. 

It  would  have  mattered  very  little  to  anybody 
whether  the  descriptions  of  the  new  novelist  were 
true  or  the  reverse,  if  A  Daughter  of  Heth  had  proved 
to  be  merely  a  passing  meteor  in  the  firmament  of 
letters.  Strongly  as  people  had  been  attracted  by 
the  book,  and  much  as  they  felt  drawn  towards 
its  writer,  their  attraction  and  interest  would  have 
subsided  quickly  enough  but  for  the  fact  that  A 
Daughter  of  Heth  was  followed  at  no  great  distance 
of  time  by  other  books  stamped  with  the  same  in- 
definable charm  and  distinguished  by  the  same 
literary  merits.  Within  three  years  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  William  Black's 
name  was  bracketed  with  those  of  the  greatest 
novelists  of  the  day,  while  he  had  won  his  way  into 
the  hearts  of  innumerable  readers  both  in  Great 
Britain  and  America — not  so  much  by  the  nervous 
force  and  grace  of  his  style,  as  by  the  sympathetic 
insight  which  enabled  him  to  depict  the  characters 

4 


HIS    SUDDEN    FAME 

and  temperaments  of  pure  and  beautiful  women 
in  such  a  manner  as  to  command  universal  assent 
and  appreciation.  To  few  writers  of  modern  times 
has  it  been  given  to  draw  to  themselves  so  much  of 
personal  sympathy  as  William  Black  secured  by 
these  early  novels  of  his.  He  had  not  been  writing 
long  before  there  began  to  pour  into  his  study  from 
all  parts  of  the  world  that  constant  stream  of  letters 
in  which  men  and  women — but  women  far  more 
frequently  than  men — told  him  of  the  affection 
he  had  created  in  their  hearts  for  the  creatures  of 
his  own  imagination — Coquette,  Bell,  Sheila — and 
of  the  gratitude  which  they  felt  that  they  owed  him 
for  the  truth  and  delicacy  with  which  he  had  made 
plain  to  them  not  the  mere  outward  forms,  but  the 
true  souls  and  inward  natures  of  the  women  whom 
he  portrayed.  And  not  unnaturally  this  deep  in- 
terest in  the  creations  of  his  pen  awoke  an  interest 
scarcely  less  keen  in  the  man  himself,  the  writer 
who,  by  a  gift  that  had  unquestionably  something 
in  it  of  true  genius,  was  able  to  paint  a  whole  series 
of  beautiful  portraits  in  colors  at  once  so  delicate 
and  so  vivid.  What  manner  of  man  was  it  who 
could  thus  unlock  the  secrets  of  a  maiden's  heart 
and  make  them  known  to  the  reader  without  shock- 
ing the  most  tender  susceptibility?  A  thousand 
questions  were  asked  about  him  in  those  early  days 
of  his  great  popularity;  and  a  thousand  similar 
questions  continued  to  be  asked  to  the  very  day  of 
his  death ;  for  the  hold  which  he  had  secured  upon 
the  sympathies  of  his  readers  lasted  through  more 
than  one  generation,  and  the  desire  to  know  some- 

5 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

thing  of  his  own  life  and  characteristics  continued 
to  the  end.  It  was  not  a  curiosity  that  was  easily 
satisfied.  The  natural  reserve  of  the  man  himself, 
his  absorption  in  his  own  thoughts  when  he  was 
working,  and  the  completeness  with  which  he  seem- 
ed to  sever  himself  from  all  connection  with  that 
work  when  his  task  was  for  the  moment  done,  made 
him  something  of  a  mystery  and  a  puzzle  to  all 
but  his  closest  friends.  Even  they,  indeed,  could 
do  little  more  than  guess  at  the  secrets  of  that  labora- 
tory of  the  mind  in  which  he  evolved  conceptions 
of  such  striking  beauty ;  for  only  to  the  very  nearest 
and  dearest  did  he  ever  make  any  revelation  of  him- 
self as  a  literary  craftsman.  To  the  outer  world, 
which  could  only  judge  by  passing  glimpses  of 
the  man  himself,  or  by  the  gossip  of  the  magazines 
and  newspapers,  William  Black  was  almost  wholly 
unknown,  and  the  curiosity  which  was  felt  as  to 
his  personal  character  remained  to  the  end  unsatis- 
fied. It  is  my  hope  that  in  these  pages  I  shall  be 
able  to  make  apparent  to  the  reader  the  real  nature 
of  a  man  who  was  not  only  one  of  the  first  writers 
of  his  time,  and  a  true  king  of  hearts  in  the  realm 
of  letters,  but  one  of  the  most  chivalrous  of  human 
souls,  a  man  who  looked  upon  the  world  and  all 
things  in  it  from  a  stand-point  of  his  own,  and  who 
for  many  a  long  year  seemed  to  those  admitted  to 
his  friendship  to  be  the  very  standard  of  manly 
honor,  tenderness,  and  good  faith.  The  story  of 
his  life,  as  I  have  now  to  unfold  it,  is  in  itself  simple 
enough;  the  story  of  a  brief  preliminary  struggle, 
a  brilliant  success,  and  continued  fame  and  pros- 

6 


HIS    ANCESTORS 

perity.  But  the  true  portrait  of  the  man  himself 
is  a  different  matter;  and  it  is  the  real  man  whom 
I  seek  to  show  to  the  readers  of  this  volume. 

William  Black  was  born  in  the  unromantic 
thoroughfare  known  as  the  Trongate,  in  Glasgow, 
on  November  15,  1841.  His  father  was  in  business 
— not  in  a  very  large  way ;  and  his  first  home  was 
one  in  which  a  frugal  comfort  was  combined  with 
that  sincere  regard  for  culture  and  for  intellect- 
ual effort  which  forms  one  of  the  distinguishing 
characteristics  of  the  Scotch  people.  But  although 
a  native  of  the  great  Lowland  city  and  a  dweller 
in  its  most  prosaic  quarter,  William  Black  was  not 
of  Lowland  blood.  His  father's  family  belonged 
to  a  branch  of  the  Clan  Lamont,  who  in  far-away 
days  had  quarrelled  with  their  fellow-clansmen, 
and  been  driven  forth  from  the  Lamont  country, 
under  the  man  they  had  chosen  as  their  leader, 
who  was  known  as  the  Black  Clerk,  or  Black  Priest. 
Hence,  one  may  infer,  comes  the  name  of  the  family. 
The  ostracized  clansmen  wandered  down  into  Lan- 
arkshire, and  settled  on  a  barren,  breezy  spot  known 
as  Carnwath  Moor.  Here  they  and  their  descend- 
ants earned  such  scanty  living  as  was  to  be  made 
by  the  culture  of  small  moorland  farms.  As  time 
passed,  the  Blacks  of  Carnwath  became  noted  for 
their  high  character,  and  their  devotion  to  the  tenets 
of  their  stern  faith.  The  ancestors  of  William 
Black  were  ardent  adherents  of  the  Covenant,  and 
in  their  farm-house  near  Carnwath  Moor  they  made 
a  secret   hiding-place,   in   which   many   a  fugitive 

7 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

Covenanter  found  an  asylum.  One  of  the  leaders 
of  the  persecuted  party — Donald  Cargill  by  name 
— was  once  hidden  in  this  place  for  three  weeks. 
While  he  was  concealed  there  a  party  of  Claver- 
house's  soldiers,  who  were  searching  for  him,  ar- 
rived at  the  farm-house,  and,  taking  possession  of 
it,  examined  it  thoroughly,  even  running  their 
swords  clean  through  the  feather-beds  on  the  chance 
of  finding  the  fugitive  hidden  in  one  of  them.  But 
they  failed  to  discover  the  secret  of  his  hiding-place, 
and,  after  remaining  on  watch  for  three  days,  took 
their  departure.  Cargill  escaped  from  the  house 
by  night,  to  find  shelter  elsewhere.  It  was  from 
this  stock  of  stern,  hard-working,  clean-living  men 
that  Black  came.  No  one  could  really  understand 
his  character  who  did  not  know  to  what  extent  it 
was  influenced  by  the  Highland  blood  in  his  veins. 
He  had  the  romanticism  of  his  race;  its  vivid  im- 
agination; its  reticence  (the  necessary  weapon  of 
defence  in  the  troublous  times  when  a  chance  word 
might  so  easily  have  brought  a  household  to  ruin) ; 
its  brooding  contemplation  of  things  unseen  by 
the  natural  eye;  and  its  proneness  to  rare  outbursts 
of  high  spirits,  when  for  a  season  the  whole  Celtic 
nature  seems  to  undergo  a  complete  transformation, 
and  in  place  of  the  sober,  serious  man,  slow  of  speech 
and  deliberate  in  action,  there  appears  another 
being  —  joyous,  emotional,  brimming  over,  as  it 
were,  with  the  joy  of  living.  This  strain  of  High- 
land blood  was  the  key  to  Black's  nature,  the  se- 
cret of  characteristics  which  sometimes  puzzled  his 
friends. 

8 


HIS    PARENTS 

His  father,  James  Black,  was  a  gentle  and  stu- 
dious person,  fond  of  books,  and  devoted,  in  the 
quiet,  undemonstrative  Scotch  fashion,  to  his  chil- 
dren, of  whom  William  was  one  of  the  younger. 
The  eldest  was  a  boy  named  James,  while  between 
him  and  William  came  a  sister,  whose  character 
in  the  coming  years  was  to  be  drawn  for  the  outer 
world  by  Black  himself  in  the  person  of  Queen  Tita. 
The  eldest  son,  James,  died  nearly  twenty  years 
before  his  more  distinguished  brother;  but  some 
traits  of  his  character  were  preserved  by  Black  in 
his  portrait  of  James  Drummond,  the  hero  of  Mad- 
cap Violet.  Mrs.  Black,  the  mother  of  the  novelist, 
survived  her  husband  for  many  years,  and  lived 
to  see  her  son  William  at  the  height  of  his  fame, 
and  in  the  fullest  enjoyment  of  his  prosperity.  Like 
her  husband,  she  was  a  devoted  parent,  and  very 
proud  of  the  talents  of  her  son.  It  was  delightful 
later  in  life  to  hear  her  talk  of  the  novelist  to  con- 
genial friends  who  shared  her  admiration  for  him. 
Transplanted  from  Glasgow  to  London,  where 
she  found  herself  amid  strange  surroundings,  she 
clung  naturally  to  those  who  had  associations  with 
her  old  home  or  with  similar  scenes.  But  her  deep 
affection  for  her  son  enabled  her  to  hold  her  own 
in  the  society  of  men  of  letters  to  which  she  was 
introduced  through  him.  Many  can  remember  the 
fine  old  Scots  lady,  whose  pride  in  her  boy  never  be- 
trayed itself  in  any  fashion  that  jarred  upon  those 
around  her,  and  whose  shrewdness  of  judgment 
led  her  to  select  unerringly,  among  the  many  stran- 
gers with  whom  she  was  brought  in  contact,  the  men 

9 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

and  women  who  were  most  worthy  of  her  friendship. 
Her  mingled  simplicity  and  quickness  was  a  fair 
indication  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  home  in  which 
William  Black  spent  his  boyhood. 

Black's  first  school  was  that  attached  to  the  parish 
of  St.  James's,  Glasgow,  where  one  of  his  masters 
was  a  brother  of  Alexander  Smith,  the  poet.  There 
is  little  to  be  told  regarding  his  school-days.  He 
was  a  shy,  retiring  boy,  who  did  not  care  much 
for  games,  and  made  very  few  friends.  Yet  while 
he  was  still  very  young  he  showed  talents  which 
led  his  father  to  believe  that  he  would  become  "a 
great  man."  Black  himself  has  written  of  his 
school-days  in  the  following  words: 

I  never  had  any  systematized  education  to  speak  of; 
but  I  managed  to  pick  up  a  vast  array  of  smatterings — 
a  crude  and  confused  jumble  of  hydraulics,  Latin  verbs, 
vegetable  physiology,  Czerny's  exercises  for  the  piano, 
and  a  dozen  other  things — a  perhaps  not  unnatural  out- 
come of  all  which  was  that  I  found  myself  engaged  at  one 
and  the  same  time  on  a  translation  of  Livy  which  was 
to  excel  in  literary  accuracy  anything  the  world  had  ever 
seen  before;  on  the  formation  of  a  complete  collection  of 
British  flowering  plants  —  the  grasses  and  cryptograms 
were  a  trifle  beyond  me — and  on  the  construction  on  paper 
of  a  machine  which  should  demonstrate  the  possibility 
of  perpetual  motion.  The  translation  of  Livy  did  not 
get  beyond  half  a  book  or  so.  The  perpetual  motion 
machine  was  never  forwarded  to  the  Royal  Society;  but 
its  phantom  on  paper  at  least  succeeded  in  puzzling  a 
good  many  worthy  persons  who  could  only  bring  against 
it  the  objection  that  in  time  friction  would  destroy  the 
mechanism — a  puerile  and  vulgar  argument.     The  scant 

10 


SCHOOL-DAYS 

herbarium  remains  to  this  day,  a  poor  enough  treasure- 
house  of  botanical  lore,  but  a  rich  treasure-house  of  memo- 
ries— memories  of  innumerable  and  healthful  wanderings 
by  hill  and  moorland  and  seashore,  through  the  rain  and 
sunlight  and  beautiful  colors  of  the  western  Highlands. 
But  the  chiefest  of  my  ambitions  was  to  become  a  land- 
scape-painter, and  I  labored  away  for  a  year  or  two  at  the 
government  School  of  Art,  and  presented  my  friends  with 
the  most  horrible  abominations  in  water-color  and  oil. 
As  an  artist  I  was  a  complete  failure,  and  so  qualified 
myself  for  becoming  in  after-life — for  a  time — an  art  critic. 

All  this  refers  to  Black's  very  early  years,  for 
as  a  matter  of  fact  his  school-days  came  to  an  end 
before  he  was  sixteen.  One  gets  from  this  passage 
a  picture  of  the  restless  boy,  conscious  of  the  posses- 
sion of  certain  powers  which  ma}'  or  may  not  prove 
of  service  to  him  in  after-life,  but  wholly  unable 
to  decide  what  is  the  work  in  which  he  is  most  likely 
to  succeed.  In  those  days,  like  every  clever  youth, 
he  lived  in  a  world  of  his  own  imagining,  and,  as 
the  foregoing  extract  proves,  was  full  of  schemes 
and  dreams  of  the  most  conflicting  kind.  If  he 
could  have  had  his  way  he  would  undoubtedly  have 
become  an  artist.  This  was  not  a  mere  fancy  of 
his  boyhood.  His  love  for  art  and  for  the  artist's 
life  clung  to  him  to  the  very  end.  I  shall  have  some- 
thing to  say  hereafter  of  his  friendships  with  the 
great  artists  of  his  time,  and  of  his  intense  sym- 
pathy with  certain  artistic  movements.  It  was 
his  passionate  desire  to  take  up  the  life  of  a  land- 
scape-painter. But  his  experience  in  the  School 
of  Art  at  Glasgow  showed  that  his  strength  did  not 

ii 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

lie  in  that  direction.  Moreover,  his  father  had 
died,  and  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  prepare 
to  make  a  living  for  himself.  So  the  vision  of  an 
artistic  career  was  dispelled.  Yet  in  those  very 
early  days  in  Glasgow  he  had  made  one  friend  who, 
like  himself,  desired  to  become  an  artist,  and  who, 
more  fortunate  than  Black,  was  destined  to  have 
his  wish  gratified.  This  was  Colin  Hunter,  now 
an  associate  of  the  Royal  Academy. 

It  was  in  1855,  when  Black  was  barely  fourteen, 
that  his  father  died.  I  have  briefly  stated  what 
manner  of  man  he  was.  He  never  gained  even 
moderate  wealth — was  never  what  the  world  calls 
successful.  But  he  was  one  of  those  fortunate 
men  who  can  enjoy  life  on  very  humble  means, 
and  enjoy  it  at  least  as  fully  as  those  with  whom 
fortune  has  seemingly  dealt  more  kindly.  He 
was  never  tired  of  impressing  upon  his  children 
the  fact  that  all  the  really  good  things  of  life,  all 
the  essentials  of  happiness,  are  just  as  freely  open 
to  the  poor  as  to  the  rich.  He  had  an  intense  love 
of  nature,  and  delighted  to  escape  from  the  crowded 
streets  of  Glasgow  into  the  country,  where  he  would 
seek  out  some  favorite  spot  and  quietly  study  its 
beauties  with  observant  eyes.  Often  his  children, 
when  they  accompanied  him  in  his  country  walks, 
saw  him,  as  he  gazed  on  some  scene  that  satisfied 
his  eye,  reverently  uncover  his  head,  and  they  knew 
that  he  was  giving  thanks  for  the  beauty  that  had 
thus  been  revealed  to  him.  His  love  of  nature,  and 
his  power  of  observing  all  natural  objects  closely, 
he  bequeathed  to  his  son  William.     Although  his 

12 


HIS     FATHER'S     DEATH 

schooling  had  been  no  better  than  that  usually  en- 
joyed by  the  son  of  a  small  farmer,  he  had  educated 
himself  so  that  he  could  read  the  Greek  Testament, 
and  had  even  some  knowledge  of  Hebrew.  French 
he  had  been  taught  as  a  boy  on  the  lonely  farm  at 
Carnwath  Moor,  for  his  mother,  with  a  provident 
care  for  the  future  unusual  even  in  Scotland,  had 
caused  all  her  children  to  be  taught  French — in 
case  Napoleon's  invading  army  should  find  footing 
on  British  soil,  and  they  should  be  deported  to  a 
foreign  country!  The  elder  Black's  religion  was 
deeply  tinctured  with  the  melancholy  of  his  race 
and  sect.  He  had  the  Puritan's  dread  of  many 
forms  of  pleasure  that  now  seem  innocent  enough, 
and  the  world  in  which  his  son  was  destined  to 
play  his  part  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  piace  of  dark- 
ness and  sin.  In  literature  his  tastes  were  char- 
acteristic of  the  man.  He  did  not  positively  for- 
bid his  children  to  read  fiction,  but  the  only  novels 
he  permitted  in  his  house  were  Scott's,  and  even 
these  were  only  tolerated  as  a  special  favor.  There 
was  little,  therefore,  in  Black's  home  in  his  early 
days  to  smooth  the  way  to  his  future  calling. 

The  death  of  the  head  of  the  household  led  to  cer- 
tain changes  in  the  son's  career.  He  had  his  own 
way  to  make  in  the  world,  and,  as  fortune  would 
have  it,  his  necessities  drew  him,  while  he  was  still 
a  lad  of  sixteen,  into  the  path  which  he  was  after- 
wards to  pursue  with  so  much  success.  Artist,  man 
of  science,  scholar — in  his  youthful  way  he  had  tried 
his  hand  at  all  these  roles,  and  in  none  of  them 
had  he  been  encouraged  by  any  promise  of  success. 

13 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

He  turned  his  thoughts  to  letters,  and  almost  idly 
took  up  the  pen  which  was  to  be  his  weapon  and  tool 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  There  is  proof  of  the 
happy  audacity  of  youth  in  his  earliest  contribu- 
tions to  the  press.  He  was  scarcely  sixteen,  but  he 
undertook  to  enlighten  his  fellow-citizens  and  the 
world  at  large  upon  the  merits  of  all  the  leading 
writers  of  the  day.  Carlyle,  Ruskin,  and  Kingsley 
were  among  those  whom  he  set  himself  to  discuss 
in  the  columns  of  one  of  the  Glasgow  daily  news- 
papers. It  is  only  those  who  have  passed  through 
a  mental  evolution  such  as  Black  underwent,  who 
will  understand  how  a  boy  of  his  age  dared  to  under- 
take this  task.  He  himself  laughed  in  later  years 
at  this  ambitious  opening  of  his  literary  career. 
"My  first  essay  in  literature,"  he  wrote,  "took  the 
form  of  a  series  of  elaborate  articles  on  the  chief 
writers  of  the  day;  and  these  I  forwarded,  anony- 
mously, to  the  editor  of  a  Glasgow  daily  newspaper 
which  is  now  dead.  They  appeared,  so  far  as  I  can 
recollect,  in  large  type,  and  in  a  prominent  position; 
and  no  doubt  the  public  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  was  something  gravely  wrong  about  this  or 
that  theory  of  Mr.  Ruskin,  or  some  hidden  virtue 
never  before  discovered  in  this  or  the  other  passage 
of  Mr.  Charles  Kingsley,  when  this  important  critic 
pointed  these  things  out."  The  public  did  not,  of 
course,  know  that  its  teacher,  who  thus  sat  in  judg- 
ment upon  the  masters  of  his  time,  had  hardly 
emerged  from  the  period  of  short  jackets.  It  prob- 
ably took  the  criticism  "in  large  type"  quite  seri- 
ously; but  my  readers  will  hardly  desire  to  have  it 

14 


HIS    FACE    IN    YOUTH 

reproduced  here.  It  is  only  mentioned,  indeed,  be- 
cause it  was  a  stage  in  the  development  of  Black's 
character,  and  because  incidentally  it  influenced 
his  subsequent  career.  The  criticisms  upon  great 
writers  made  a  certain  impression  upon  the  editor 
who  published  them,  and  he  offered  the  young  author 
an  engagement  upon  the  staff  of  his  journal.  I 
have  before  me  as  I  write  a  photograph  of  Black, 
which  dates  from  about  this  period  of  his  life.  It 
is  one  that  repays  study.  The  face  is  naturally 
rounder  and  fuller  than  it  was  in  manhood,  and 
the  beautifully  moulded  mouth  has  more  of  the 
sensitiveness  of  youth  in  it.  But  otherwise  the 
boy's  face  is  one  that  might  very  well  be  taken 
for  that  of  a  man  of  mature  age.  There  is  an  ear- 
nestness and  directness  in  the  expression,  indeed, 
which  men  as  a  rule  are  rather  shy  of  allowing  their 
faces  to  betray.  Perhaps  there  is  something  also 
in  the  portrait  that  speaks  of  the  consciousness  of 
strength,  and  the  determination  to  make  use  of  it. 
Certainly  it  is  a  striking  picture,  and  it  helps  one  to 
understand  what  William  Black  was  in  those  days 
when,  the  world  before  him,  he  first  began  to  use  his 
pen  in  order  to  influence  his  fellow-creatures. 

It  was  in  the  Glasgow  Weekly  Citizen,  under  the 
editorship  of  Dr.  James  Hedderwick,  that  he  next 
appeared  as  a  writer.  Dr.  Hedderwick  was  himself 
a  poet  and  an  essayist,  and  he  was  not  long  in  dis- 
covering that  his  youthful  contributor,  though  still 
in  his  teens,  had  "the  root  of  the  matter  in  him." 
He  gave  him  plenty  of  work  to  do  on  the  Citizen, 
and  for  a  time  Black  went  through  the  regular  rou- 

15 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

tine  of  a  provincial  newspaper  office,  in  the  days 
when  specialism  was  unknown,  and  any  member 
of  the  staff  was  expected  to  criticise  a  new  play  or 
write  a  paragraph  of  local  news  with  equal  facility. 
As  one  who  has  himself  been  through  this  mill  of 
the  provincial  press,  I  can  testify  to  its  excellence  as 
a  means  of  developing  a  young  man's  intelligence, 
making  him  observant,  quick,  and  systematic.  No 
better  training  for  a  writer  could  well  be  conceived. 

Sir  Robert  Giffen  has  favored  me  with  certain 
reminiscences  of  Black  which  date  from  this  time. 
"My  recollections  of  William  Black,"  Sir  Robert 
writes,  "begin  in  Glasgow,  in  the  years  1857-60. 
At  that  time  one  of  my  friends  was  Mr.  John  G. 
Whyte,  son  of  Mr.  Whyte,  a  teacher  in  Frederick 
Street,  Glasgow,  and  I  was  often  in  his  house  of 
an  evening.  Black,  who  was  then  a  boy  in  a  short 
jacket,  employed  in  the  Citizen  newspaper  office, 
was  frequently  a  visitor  there,  being  a  family  ac- 
quaintance. My  friend,  Mr.  John  Whyte,  was 
much  interested  in  him  as  a  boy  of  promise,  as  he 
was  already  writing  sketches  which  appeared  in 
the  Citizen,  which  at  that  time  devoted  some  atten- 
tion to  literature.  Even  then  Black  was  apt  to  be 
somewhat  silent  and  reserved,  only  occasionally 
breaking  out." 

One  cannot  say  that  the  early  work  for  the  Citizen 
gave  any  real  indication  of  the  bent  of  Black's  mind. 
He  wrote  sketches  of  rambles  in  the  country,  in- 
deed, that  proved  that  he  was  already  turning  the 
eye  of  an  artist  upon  the  beauties  of  nature;  but 
there  was  nothing  to  indicate  the  author  who  was 

16 


YOUTHFUL     POEMS 

destined  to  excite  the  generous  envy  of  Ruskin  by 
his  power  of  describing  scenery.  He  was  doing 
the  all-round  work  of  the  journalist,  and  the  chief 
benefit  he  derived  from  it  was  the  power  he  gained 
of  writing  good,  nervous  English,  and  of  making 
his  epithets  suit  the  objects  to  which  they  were  ap- 
plied. By-and-by,  however,  he  struck  a  new  vein 
of  his  own.  Beneath  that  mask  of  reserve  which 
he  wore  so  constantly,  especially  in  his  youth,  a 
very  warm  and  susceptible  heart  was  beating,  and 
already  his  intense  sensitiveness  to  beauty — beauty 
in  natural  scenery  and  beauty  in  the  human  face 
— was  beginning  to  influence  him.  When  he  saw 
a  fair  face  it  haunted  him,  and  he  invested  it  with 
a  hundred  charms  which  in  most  cases  existed  only 
in  his  own  imagination.  It  is  not  difficult  to  imagine 
that  the  shy,  sensitive  boy,  who  so  resolutely  con- 
cealed every  sign  of  emotion  from  those  around 
him,  must  have  had  some  painful  experiences  of 
his  own  at  this  time.  His  fancy  was  always  fol- 
lowing some  vision,  seen  perhaps  for  a  moment 
only,  but  remembered  long.  It  was  then  that  there 
came  to  him  the  relief  that  his  nature  called  for, 
but  which  he  resolutely  refused  to  find  in  intercourse 
with  his  friends.  He  began  to  write  poetry.  I  lis 
verses  of  those  days  were  sufficiently  simple  and 
artless.  Sometimes  they  took  the  form  of  ballads, 
in  which  some  courageous  action  or  some  dark 
deed  of  vengeance  was  recited.  More  frequently 
they  were  little  love  songs,  recounting  the  praises 
of  "Lilys"  and  "Eylomels,"  who  may  not  all  have 
been  imaginary  persons,  though  none  of  them  ever 

17 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

entered  into  his  real  life.  It  is  an  easy  thing  to 
understand  the  relief  which  he  must  have  found  in 
the  utterance  of  his  pent-up  feelings  in  this  innocent 
fashion.  Every  boy  who  has  ever  attempted  to 
write  has  tried  his  hand  at  poetry.  Black  found 
in  his  verses  a  vehicle  by  means  of  which  he  could 
give  vent  to  that  emotional  side  of  his  nature  which 
he  hid  so  studiously  from  those  around  him.  He 
never  pretended  to  be  a  poet,  but  he  had  a  considerable 
command  of  the  ballad  metre,  and  some  of  his  small 
poems  had  decided  merit.  To  the  end  of  his  life  he 
continued  from  time  to  time  to  write  poetry.  Here 
are  some  verses  written  before  he  was  twenty-one, 
which  I  cull  from  the  pages  of  Hedderwick's  Mis- 
cellany : 

To  Lily  F 

0  dear  little  lady,  with  earnest  eyes 
Of  wondering,  beautiful  blue, 

1  see  you  are  struck  with  a  sweet  surprise 
That  we  should  be  looking  at  you! 

You  know  not  the  joy  which  a  primrose  bloom 

Gives  to  a  dweller  in  towns — 
Bringing  him  visions  of  sea-dipped  gloom, 

And  fragrance  of  breezy  downs. 

You  know  not  the  beauty  of  those  blue  eyes, 

Or  the  sudden  electrical  flush 
Which  laughingly  up  to  your  sweet  face  flies — 

Too  simple  and  pretty  to  blush. 

Your  father  is  one  of  those  poets,  my  child, 
Who  were  born  in  the  woodlands  to  roam; 

Yet  why  should  he  sigh  after  flow'rets  wild, 
With  such  a  sweet  Lily  at  home? 

18 


HIS     FIRST     NOVEL 

Gradually,  as  his  pen  became  more  facile,  he 
strengthened  his  hold  upon  the  local  Glasgow  press, 
and  established  among  those  who  knew  him  a  rep- 
utation for  uncommon  cleverness.  That  he  was 
distinctly  ambitious  in  a  boyish  fashion  was  ap- 
parent to  all  his  friends.  He  was  resolved  to  suc- 
ceed, and  to  gain  renown  in  one  field  or  another. 
He  was  barely  twenty  when  he  began  to  write  his 
first  novel,  James  Merle,  which  was  published  in 
Glasgow  in  1864.  But  even  before  his  ambition 
had  moved  him  to  this  effort,  he  had  made  himself 
at  home  in  a  little  coterie  of  men — most  of  them 
greatly  his  seniors — who  had  the  same  tastes  as 
himself.  Among  these,  no  one  was  more  closely 
associated  with  him  than  Mr.  Whyte,  mentioned 
on  a  previous  page  by  Sir  Robert  Giffen.  He  and 
Mr.  Whyte,  with  one  or  two  others,  met  regularly 
for  discussions  upon  set  themes,  some  of  them  of 
a  sufficiently  formidable  kind.  One  of  Black's 
earliest  letters  to  Mr.  Whyte  is  as  follows : 

i^th  January,  i860. 
DEAR  Mr.  WHYTE,— That  peculiar  little  bird,  yclept 
gossip,  and  which  I  humbly  submit  should  be  called  a 
large  bird,  has  informed  me  you  are  coming  up  on  some 
night  next  week.  If  you  remember,  you  got  the  loan  from 
me,  about  eight  months  ago,  of  a  remarkable  poem,  which 
I  would  like  you  to  bring  up  with  you.  I  have  no  ambition 
to  have  said  poem  figuring  in  my  works  (posthumous 
edition).  I  only  want  to  show  it  to  some  one,  when  you 
may  have  it  back  again.  I  say,  isn't  the  English  lan- 
guage a  jolly  one,  that  has  so  many  pronouns  which  don't 
take  a  feminine  form,  like  those  of  the  poor  devils  whom 

19 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

you  are  going  to  annihilate!  "  One  "  is  so  beautifully 
indefinite,  and  then  it  doesn't  let  your  correspondent 
know  that  you  are  vulgar  enough  to  be  in  business,  as 
"  party  "  does. 

Will  Tuesday  night  do?  I  have  something  in  the  fire- 
arm way  which  will  astonish,  but  of  course  not  frighten 
you.  Yours  sincerely, 

W.  Black. 

He  was  in  the  habit  of  showing  Mr.  Whyte  any 
of  his  compositions  of  which  he  was  specially  proud, 
and  of  inviting  his  criticisms  upon  them.  One 
other  critic  he  had,  to  whom  he  always  listened 
with  respectful  attention.  This  was  his  brother 
James.  For  him  he  entertained  not  only  a  deep 
affection,  but  a  great  admiration,  and  so  long  as 
James  lived  his  criticisms,  given  with  the  frank 
freedom  of  a  brother,  were  always  listened  to  with 
attention.  Mr.  Whyte,  it  is  clear,  from  some  letters 
of  Black's  which  have  been  happily  preserved,  was 
a  lenient  critic,  and  could  praise  generously  when 
he  felt  justified  in  doing  so: 

To  Mr.  Whyte. 

Tuesday. 

DEAR  MR.  WHYTE,— Your  letter  is  one  of  those  things 
that  don't  often  fall  to  a  fellow's  lot  in  this  mundane  exist- 
ence. I  dare  say  you  have  heard  of  that  meeting  of  Paisley 
pawets,  in  which  one  speaker  rose  up  and  said,  "  They 
starve  us  when  we  are  living,  and  raise  monuments  to 
us  when  we  are  dead."  Though  not  aspiring  to  raise 
myself  to  the  position  of  a  P.  pawet,  I  am  afraid  that  in 
my  case  the  affair  is  to  be  reversed.  Otherwise,  you  must 
be  down  upon  me  with  a  cold  bath  to  counteract  the  evil 
effects  of  your  letter.     As  to  your  liking  the  descriptive 

20 


FRIENDS     OF    HIS     YOUTH 

parts  best,  it  is  so  long  since  I  read  the  manuscript  that 
I  don't  remember  of  there  being  anything  else  in  it.  The 
only  bit  I  remember  well  is  that  which  I  liked  best — the 
interview  between  the  handsome  scelerat  (I  forget  his  name) 
and  the  girl  in  the  cave.  As  to  putting  it  into  poetry,  I 
could  do  that  with  the  greatest  ease,  but  Morten  swears 
it  wouldn't  go  down.  The  idea  of  that  debating  club — 
or  whatever  name  it  may  go  under — ought  to  be  carried 
out.  B.  thinks  it  an  excellent  idea,  as  he  has  had  ex- 
perience of  four  young  men's  institutes.  Will  you  look 
after  it?  Yours  very  truly, 

William  Black. 

The  Morten  mentioned  in  this  letter  was  Mr.  J. 
G.  Morten,  who,  in  the  year  1859,  had  married  Black's 
sister  Wilhelmina.  Mr.  Morten,  though  engaged 
in  his  profession  in  London,  saw  a  great  deal  of 
Black  while  the  latter  was  still  resident  in  Glasgow. 
He  was  one  of  the  earliest  to  recognize  his  talent, 
and  he  had  a  warm  appreciation  of  his  character — 
a  character  that  was  not  easily  to  be  understood. 
Mr.  Morten  will  often  appear  in  these  pages.  All 
that  need  be  said  here  is  that  his  unceasing  friend- 
ship for  Black  was  not  the  least  important  factor  in 
the  latter's  life,  and  that  in  many  ways  Black  was 
indebted  to  his  brother-in-law  to  the  end  of  his  days: 

To  Mr.  Whyte. 

Tuesday  Night. 

DEAR  Mr.  WHYTE,— I  make  you  a  fair  offer— that 
you,  Bannatyne,  and  Campbell,  if  you  will,  get  primed 
before  Sunday  three  weeks  on  the  question  whether  litera- 
ture or  art  is  intrinsically  best  fitted  to  elevate  the  pensive 
public ;  which  is  most  permanent ;  and  which  is  most  uni- 

21 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

versal  in  application.     Regulations :   i.  that  there  he  no 
regulations ;    2.    that    anybody    speaks    when    the    spirit 
prompts ;  3.  that  no  beer  be  on  the  table. 
"  Nothing  can  fairer  be." — Shakespeare. 
"  Come  one,  come  all." — Walter  Scott. 
"  I  won't  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

Nor    keep   the   peace    with   thee." — Macaulay. 
"  In  Dixie's  land 
I'll  take   my   stand." — Archbishop  of   Canterbury. 

Yours  truly, 

William  Black. 

Among  Black's  friends  at  this  time,  in  addition 
to  Sir  Robert  Giffen  and  Mr.  Colin  Hunter,  were 
two  young  men  who  were  both  destined  to  win  dis- 
tinction in  the  world  of  letters.  These  were  Mr. 
Charles  Gibbon,  who  afterwards  won  a  certain  rep- 
utation as  a  novelist,  and  Mr.  Robert  Buchanan, 
who  gained  fame  as  a  poet  and  dramatist.  With 
Buchanan  he  struck  up  a  genuine  friendship  while 
they  were  both  residents  in  Glasgow,  and  there  is 
little  doubt  that  the  example  of  the  brilliant  young 
Scotsman,  who  made  so  brave  a  struggle  against 
fate  when,  friendless  and  penniless,  he  first  laid 
siege  to  the  cruel  indifference  of  London,  had  no 
small  influence  over  Black.  He  never  had  to  en- 
dure the  sufferings  which  fell  to  the  lot  of  Buchanan. 
His  whole  course  in  life  was  a  different  one,  and 
he  was  spared  the  bitter  struggle  against  want 
through  which  Buchanan  had  to  pass  before  he 
gained  his  first  success.  But  Buchanan's  friend- 
ship and  example  undoubtedly  inspired  him  in 
those  early  days;  and  when    in   course  of  time  he 

22 


FULL    OF    RESTLESS    ACTIVITY 

too  set  forth  to  try  his  fortunes  in  London,  it  was 
his  old  Glasgow  friend  who  was  the  first  to  welcome 
him,  and  to  find  a  home  for  him  under  the  roof  under 
which  he  himself  lived. 

Buchanan  had  left  Glasgow  before  the  debating 
club,  which  Black  and  his  friend,  Mr.  Whyte,  found- 
ed, began  its  brief  existence,  so  that  the  discussions, 
of  which  no  record  remains,  lacked  the  force  that 
would  have  been  given  to  them  by  the  aggressive 
intellect  of  the  author  of  The  Fleshly  School  in 
Poetry.  It  is  only  passing  glimpses  that  one  gets 
through  the  veil  of  years  of  Black's  mental  occupa- 
tions at  this  time ;  but  his  letters  to  Mr.  Whyte  indi- 
cate that  he  was  full  of  the  restless  activity  of  youth, 
and  that  he  confided  all  his  literary  ventures  to  his 
friend.  The  well-known  publishers,  Messrs.  Black, 
of  Edinburgh,  had  asked  him  to  revise  their  Guide 
to  Scotland;  and  having  accepted  the  offer — a  flat- 
tering proposal  for  so  young  a  man — Black  writes 
to  Mr.  Whyte  to  ask  him  for  information  about  the 
public  buildings  in  Glasgow.  But  by -and -by  all 
his  thoughts  seem  to  be  centred  upon  the  writing  of 
James  Merle.  This  story  is  now  out  of  print,  and 
there  are  probably  but  few  copies  of  it  extant;  yet 
those  who  have  read  it  must  know  that  it  is  a  very 
notable  book,  and  that  as  the  work  of  a  very  young 
man  it  is  remarkable.  The  wonder  is  that  its  prom- 
ise was  not  recognized  at  the  time,  and  that  it 
did  not  lead  its  author  straight  to  success  as  a 
novelist.  The  story  is  cast  in  the  form  of  an  auto- 
biography, and  the  plot  is  a  very  simple  one.  The 
hero  is  the  son  of  a  village  shoemaker  of  Eastburn, 

23 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

a  little  hamlet  some  thirty  miles  from  Glasgow. 
The  elder  Merle  is  the  most  rigid  of  Puritans,  a 
light  of  his  own  sect ;  and  though  by  nature  a  gentle 
and  amiable  man,  impregnated  with  the  dour  theol- 
ogy and  stern  tenets  of  his  creed.  His  son  James 
commits  what  is  in  his  father's  eyes  the  unpardon- 
able sin  of  falling  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  the 
village  innkeeper.  The  poor  boy  is  preached  over 
and  prayed  over,  not  only  by  his  father,  but  by 
several  worthy  divines,  among  whom  the  famous 
John  Brown,  of  Haddington,  is  introduced.  Prayers 
and  preachings  have,  however,  no  effect  in  turning 
the  young  man  from  the  girl  whom  he  loves.  Un- 
luckily for  everybody,  after  an  agitating  scene, 
in  which  old  Merle  proclaims  his  undying  oppo- 
sition to  a  marriage  between  his  son  and  the 
publican's  daughter,  he  is  struck  with  paralysis, 
and  seems  like  to  die.  Then  the  son  is  prevailed 
upon,  sorely  against  his  will,  to  promise  his  dying 
father  that  he  will  not  marry  the  girl  of  his  choice 
unless  his  aunt,  in  whose  fidelity  to  her  creed  the 
father  e\Tidently  trusts,  should  give  her  consent 
to  his  doing  so.  The  story  ends  happily,  the  young 
man,  when  he  finds  that  his  betrothed  is  fretting 
herself  into  the  grave,  taking  the  law  into  his  own 
hands,  and  boldly  relinquishing  the  promise  ex- 
torted from  him  on  the  plea  that  it  alone  could  save 
his  father's  life.  But  before  this  '"'happy  ending" 
is  reached,  the  hero  has  to  pass  through  various 
experiences  in  Glasgow,  and  these  experiences 
not  only  enable  the  author  to  draw  some  graphic 
pictures  of  Glasgow  life  in  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 

24 


"JAMES     MERLE" 

teenth  century,  but  furnish  an  excuse  for  the  in- 
troduction of  many  amusing  characters.  The 
strongest  feature  of  the  book  is  the  serious  spirit 
in  which  it  discusses  various  religious  and  meta- 
physical questions.  There  are  free  references  to 
the  prophets  and  the  psalmist.  The  Bible  is,  in- 
deed, constantly  in  requisition  for  illustrations  to 
the  story,  and  always  it  is  treated  in  a  spirit  of  genu- 
ine reverence.  The  feeling  for  scenery,  which  was 
so  marked  a  feature  of  Black's  later  writings,  is 
plainly  visible  in  James  Merle,  though  the  author 
never  ventures  upon  any  long  flights  of  descriptive 
writing,  his  references  to  the  beauties  of  nature 
being  as  terse  as  they  are  effective. 

In  later  years  Black  never  referred  to  this  book, 
and  seemed  anxious  that  the  very  memory  of  it 
should  perish.  The  few  friends  to  whom  he  gave 
copies  received  strict  injunctions  never  to  part  with 
the  book.  I  think  that  it.s  writer  would  not  have 
been  sorry  if  he  had  known  that  every  copy  was 
destroyed.  Now,  though  the  book  was  no  doubt 
immature,  it  was  so  full  of  promise,  and  was  so 
effective  in  its  very  artlessness,  that  there  was  no 
good  reason,  so  far  as  its  literary  quality  was  con- 
cerned, why  Black  should  have  regarded  it  with  dis- 
favor. It  seems  probable  that  he  disliked  it  and 
would  fain  have  removed  it  from  the  knowledge 
of  the  world  because,  although  it  was  the  autobi- 
ography of  a  fictitious  character,  it  reflected  much 
of  the  writer's  own  life.  One  is  allowed  to  see  in  its 
pages  the  conflict  between  the  artistic  temperament 
of  a  young  man  of  talent  and  enthusiasm  and  the 

25 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

dreary  creed  with  which  Black  was  made  familiar 
in  his  youth.  The  very  gravity  with  which  he 
discusses  theological  questions,  the  unfailing  rev- 
erence with  which  he  alludes  not  only  to  the  Bible, 
but  to  famous  preachers  like  Brown,  of  Haddington, 
prove  the  extent  to  which  his  own  spirit  was  affected 
by  his  early  surroundings.  I  do  not  know  that 
there  was  much  in  common  between  James  Merle's 
father,  as  depicted  in  the  book,  and  the  father  of 
Black;  but  undoubtedly  they  held  a  common  faith, 
and  the  one  must  have  looked  at  life  very  much 
in  the  light  in  which  it  was  regarded  by  his  fictitious 
double.  Black  was  anxious  to  forget  the  book,  I 
fancy,  in  later  years,  not  because  he  had  any  reason 
to  be  ashamed  of  it  as  a  literary  production,  but 
because  it  recalled  to  him,  and  laid  bare  to  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  the  atmosphere  in  which  much  of  his 
early  life  was  spent.  The  heaven  that  lies  about 
us  in  our  infancy  was,  in  the  case  of  Black,  as  in 
that  of  so  many  other  Scots  youths  of  his  time,  a 
heaven  too  deeply  tinctured  with  a  sombre  creed  to 
furnish  congenial  or  sympathetic  memories  to  a  man 
who,  in  the  process  of  mental  evolution,  had  advanced 
to  another  and  a  more  liberal  plane  of  thought  from 
that  on  which  he  started.  This,  I  take  it,  accounted 
for  that  curious  dislike  which  Black  evinced  in  his 
later  years  to  any  mention  of  his  first  novel. 

Both  the  following  letters  refer  to  James  Merle : 

To  Mr.  Whyte. 

DEAR  Mr.  WHYTE, — I  am  sorry  that  your  criticisms 
on  the  last  chapter  are  only  too  just,  but  please  to  remember 

26 


FINISHES     "JAMES     MERLE 


t  < 


that  I  commenced  with  a  few  general  observations  to  the 
effect  that  these  tea-meetings  were  rather  insipid.  You 
could  not  expect  a  lot  of  "  vapid  women  "  to  talk  as  the 
members  of  Gregory's  club;  still  less  could  you  wish  tea- 
things  to  be  described  in  the  manner  of  Mr.  Ruskin.  Un- 
less, indeed,  one  were  to  introduce  something  like  Harvey's 
Meditations  on  a  breakfast-table.  Nor  am  I  sorry  that 
Miss  Burton  should  turn  out  a  failure.  Would  you  wish 
to  have  two  paragons  in  a  novel?  Surely  no.  I  liked 
very  much  that  contrast  between  her  and  the  East- 
burn  maiden.  "  Cookies  "  and  "  shortbread  "  vide  Strang 
were  the  characteristics  of  a  tea-drinking.  These  words 
are  unknown  in  England,  shortbread  being  called  "  Scotch 
cake."  In  the  other  matters  to  be  got  out  of  Strang  I 
don't  think  you  will  find  me  mistaken,  as  I  read  him  up 
that  Sunday  night  with  some  care.  The  quotations  from 
Horace  I  have  never  seen  elsewhere ;  nor  are  they  the  kind 
to  be  placed  before  the  youthful  palate  in  a  grammar. 
I  flattered  myself  that  the  allusion  to  Burns  was  in  direct 
opposition  to  the  vulgar  idea,  seeing  that  a  man  who  could 
not  drink  was  not  likely  to  become  a  great  drunkard.  I 
shall,  however,  go  over  both  chapters  again,  taking  away 
all  "  forced  "  appearances,  and  smoothing  down  corners. 
I  would  rather  have  left  the  advent  of  the  letter-carrier 
as  it  was  at  first  (which  was  merely  a  suggestion),  but  I 
trembled  for  the  extent  of  the  British  public's  imagination. 
I  shall  now  put  it  back  as  it  was.  I  will  either  smooth 
down  Jimmie's  look,  or  cut  it  out  altogether. 

Dear  me!     It's  all  over. 

Please  don't  say  anything  bad  of  this  chapter,  for  I 
cannot  alter  a  syllable  of  it.  I  have  written  it  at  a  stretch, 
and  if  it  is  read  in  bits  I'm  afraid  it  will  lose  what  force 
it  may  have.  A  dozen  more  sentences  will  finish  the  book, 
and  our  co-partnership  will  be  for  the  mean  time  dissolved. 

27 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

I  hope  you've  enjoyed  your  part  of  it  as  well  as  I've  enjoyed 

mine,  though  I  was  thinking  last  week  of  burning  the 

whole  affair.     I  don't  think  the  book  would  be  much  the 

better  of  being  enlarged,  as  it  would  probably  lose  whatever 

unity  now  keeps  it  together. 

Yours  most  truly, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

DEAR  Mr.  WHYTE,— I  send  you  a  new  introduction 
for  James  Merle,  likewise  a  picture  of  the  man  himself. 
I  have  another  letter  from  Chapman  Hall,  and  as  I 
didn't  use  much  courtesy  with  them  they  don't  spare  me. 
I  hinted  that  they  might  prefer  the  hero  of  Adam  Bede 
to  the  hero  of  Jane  Eyre,  but  that  /  did  not ;  neither  did 
I  care  to  write  for  such  people.  ...  On  Sunday  I  shall 
bring  you  C.  &  H.'s  letters. 

Yours  very  truly, 

William  Black. 

These  letters  are  of  interest  because  they  are  the 
earliest  evidences  of  the  care  with  which  Black 
attended  even  to  the  smallest  details  in  his  novels. 
They  are  amusing,  too,  because  of  the  characteristic 
vigor  with  which  the  young  writer  defends  his  wrork 
from  the  strictures  of  his  friendly  critic  and  "  co-part- 
ner "  ;  while  his  reference  to  his  correspondence  with 
the  eminent  London  publishers  affords  a  glimpse  of 
his  epistolary  style  in  the  crude  days  of  his  youth. 
All  through  his  life  Black  was  in  the  habit  of  speak- 
ing strongly  w7hen  he  felt  strongly.  The  proud 
independence  of  spirit  which  he  inherited  from  his 
Celtic  ancestors  did  not  easily  brook  anything  that 
he  conceived  was  in  the  nature  of  a  rebuke.  But 
as  he  grew  older  he  knew  better  than  to  open  his 

28 


A    ROMANCE    OF    HIS    YOUTH 

correspondence,  even  with  a  publisher,  in  the  ag- 
gressive tone  on  which  he  seems  to  have  prided 
himself  in  his  communications  with  Messrs.  Chap- 
man &  Hall.  It  was  only  when  an  affront  had 
been  offered  to  him  that  the  hot  blood  of  his  race 
asserted  itself,  and  he  expressed  himself  with  a 
vituperative  force  that  was,  to  say  the  least,  dis- 
concerting to  those  against  whom  it  was  directed. 
One  need  not  be  surprised  that  Messrs.  Chapman 
&  Hall  did  not  go  out  of  their  way  to  befriend 
the  unknown  youth  who  approached  them  in  so 
proud  and  defiant  a  spirit.  James  Merle  found 
a  publisher  in  Glasgow  in  the  person  of  a  certain 
Mr.  Murray.  But  it  achieved  no  success,  and  al- 
most before  the  ink  on  its  printed  pages  was  dry, 
its  author  seemed  anxious  to  have  it  forgotten. 
His  life  in  Glasgow  was  drawing  to  a  close  when  he 
wrote  the  story,  and  he  was  about  to  turn  his  back 
upon  his  youth  and  the  crowded,  bustling  streets 
of  the  great  city  in  which  he  had  first  seen  the  light 
of  day. 

Why  he  at  last  left  his  native  place  and  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood  there  is  no  need  to  tell  at  length. 
The  story  of  the  episode  in  his  life  which  led  to  his 
setting  out  from  home  to  face  the  world  is  already 
written  in  the  pages  of  Pendennis.  It  is  the  old 
story  of  a  boy's  youthful  passion  for  a  woman  of 
the  world,  of  the  love  of  Arthur  Pendennis  for  the 
Fotheringhay.  There  is  nothing  in  the  story  which 
any  friend  of  Black's  can  deplore — nothing  of  which 
even  he,  in  his  sensitive  chivalry,  can  have  repented. 
A  woman,  somewhat  older  than  himself,  and  well 

29 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

versed  in  the  ways  of  that  world  of  which  as  j^et  he 
knew  absolutely  nothing,  caught  his  young  fancy 
and,  as  he  believed  for  the  moment,  secured  his 
heart.  His  passion  for  this  lady  was  pure  and 
beautiful  in  itself,  and  he  hotly  resented  the  crit- 
icisms upon  which  older  people — perhaps  not  wiser 
— ventured  when  they  sought  to  point  out  to  him 
the  folly  and  hopelessness  of  his  adoration  of  an 
obscure  actress.  Nothing,  not  even  the  appeals 
of  his  much-loved  brother  James,  and  of  the  other 
members  of  his  family,  could  move  him.  He  be- 
lieved, just  as  Arthur  Pendennis  did  before  him, 
not  to  speak  of  many  another  whose  lot  has  been 
cast  in  the  sober  domain  of  real  life,  that  even  those 
dearest  to  him  in  his  own  household  were  in  a  con- 
spiracy against  him  and  the  woman  whose  chivalrous 
and  reverent  admirer  he  had  become.  It  was  only 
the  act  of  the  woman  herself  that  could  cut  the  knot 
that  bound  him  to  her.  Happily,  as  so  often  happens 
in  such  cases,  the  woman  did  cut  the  knot,  and 
Black  was  set  free  from  an  entanglement  in  which, 
though  undoubtedly  there  was  some  folly,  there 
was  no  taint  of  shame.  It  was  his  first  great  dis- 
illusionment, and  it  cut  him  to  the  heart.  What 
wonder  that  after  this  episode,  so  commonplace  in 
the  eyes  of  the  man  of  the  world,  so  bitter  and  trag- 
ical to  the  young  sufferer  by  it,  Glasgow  became  a 
hateful  place  to  Black.  He  could  no  longer  tolerate 
its  streets,  which  spoke  to  him  only  too  eloquently 
of  a  dream  that  had  vanished  and  a  love  that  had 
proved  false.  And  Glasgow  having  become  impossi- 
ble, there  was  no  other  place  possible  but  London. 

30 


CHAPTER    II 

BEGINNING  OF  LONDON  LIFE 

He  Goes  to  London — Robert  Buchanan — Clerk  in  Maitland, 
Ewing  &  Company's  —  His  Love  of  Children  —  The  Morning 
Star — Work  on  the  London  Press — Marriage  to  Augusta 
Wenzel — Death  of  His  Young  Wife — The  Seven  Weeks'  War 
— Sympathies  with  German  Life  and  Character — Mr.  E.  D. 
J.  Wilson's  Reminiscences — Literary  Society — The  London 
Review — The  Whitefriars'  Club — Love  or  Marriage — In  Silk 
Attire — Kilmeny — The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane — The 
Daily  Neivs — William  Barry — Death  of  Black's  Son. 

LONDON  was  the  magnet  which  drew  Black  as 
j  strongly  as  it  has  always  drawn  the  young 
man  of  letters  eager  to  make  his  way  in  the  great 
unknown  world  in  which  fame  and  power  are  to  be 
found  and  grasped  by  some.  It  was  natural  that 
he  should  feel  that  his  work  in  Glasgow  was  ac- 
complished. It  had  not  been  barren  work,  nor  was 
the  field  of  labor  to  be  called  a  narrow  one.  But 
London,  with  its  boundless  possibilities,  and  its 
wonderful  though  mysterious  attraction  for  every 
ardent  young  spirit,  appealed  to  him  too  strongly 
to  be  resisted ;  and  so  to  London  he  came,  to  try  his 
fortune  in  conflict  with  his  equals,  and  to  test  him- 
self in  the  arena  in  which  so  few,  in  comparison 
with  the  army  of  competitors,  can,  in  the  end,  be 
counted  among  the  victors.     It  was  at  the  end  of 

3i 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

1863,  when  he  had  just  completed  his  twenty-second 
year,  that  Black  removed  from  Glasgow  to  the  me- 
tropolis. He  had  gained  confidence  in  himself,  and 
his  fixed  determination  was  to  stand  or  fall  by  his 
literary  work.  But  he  had  to  reckon  first  with  the 
prudent  mother  at  home.  She  believed  thoroughly 
in  her  son's  talent,  but  she  had  the  untravelled  Scots- 
woman's dread  of  London,  with  all  its  possibilities 
for  good  or  evil;  and  it  seemed  more  than  she  could 
bear  to  trust  her  son  to  the  struggle  for  life  as  a  man 
of  letters,  unless  he  had  something  fixed  and  definite 
in  the  way  of  income  to  fall  back  upon.  She  made 
it  a  condition,  therefore,  of  her  assent  to  his  going  to 
London  that  he  should  not  give  up  his  employment 
in  Glasgow  until  he  had  found  a  post  with  a  settled 
salary  in  the  metropolis.  It  did  not  matter  to  her 
mind  how  small  the  income  might  be,  nor  was  she 
specially  anxious  as  to  the  nature  of  the  work,  so 
long  as  it  was  work  that  an  honest  man  could  un- 
dertake without  doing  injury  to  himself.  But  work, 
and  settled  work,  must  be  found  for  Black  before 
the  anxious  mother  would  assent  to  his  going.  The 
son  had  a  deep  affection  for  the  mother,  and  though 
the  condition  assigned  was  irksome,  he  was  ready 
to  fulfil  it,  if  by  doing  so  he  could  set  her  anxieties 
at  rest.  But  a  position  in  the  world  of  journalism 
was  not  one  that  could  be  found  in  a  moment;  and 
as  by  this  time  Black  was  burning  with  eagerness  to 
leave  Glasgow,  he  accepted,  as  a  temporary  measure, 
the  first  opening  that  was  offered  to  him,  which  was 
that  of  a  clerk  in  the  counting-house  of  the  great 
Indian    and    China    merchants,    Maitland,    Ewing, 

32 


ROBERT     BUCHANAN 

&  Company,  of  Birchin  Lane.  The  post  was 
humble  enough,  and  the  duties,  such  as  they  were, 
far  from  congenial  to  the  young  man  of  letters;  but 
to  hold  this  modest  clerkship  was  to  secure  a  footing 
in  the  great  world  of  London,  a  place  from  which  to 
climb  to  higher  things,  and  Black  did  not  hesitate 
a  moment  about  accepting  it.  He  travelled  all  night, 
as  many  a  Scots  lad  had  done  before  him,  on  his 
fateful  journey  to  the  metropolis,  and,  on  arriving 
there,  went  at  once  to  lodgings  which  had  been  se- 
cured for  him  at  Granby  Street,  Camden  Town,  in  a 
house  in  which  Robert  Buchanan  already  rented  an 
apartment.  Buchanan  received  his  young  fellow- 
countryman  in  a  friendly  fashion,  and  for  some 
time  they  were  not  only  fellow-lodgers,  but  fast 
friends. 

Buchanan  had  been  for  three  or  four  years  in 
London  when  Black  thus  came  to  reside  under  the 
same  roof  with  him.  The  history  of  the  nineteenth 
century  contains  no  more  tragical  story  connected 
with  the  world  of  letters  than  that  of  Buchanan  and 
his  friend  and  comrade,  David  Gray,  the  poet,  dur- 
ing their  fight  with  adverse  fortune  in  their  early 
days  in  London.  The  story  of  Gray  has  already 
been  told.  It  was  the  old  story  of  the  unequal  fight 
of  genius  with  unkind  fate.  Buchanan  was  made 
of  different  stuff  from  the  author  of  The  Luggie. 
He  was  a  man  who  in  his  later  life  made  many  ene- 
mies; but  even  the  most  bitter  of  those  enemies  could 
hardly  fail  to  do  homage  to  the  splendid  courage 
with  which  he  bore  himself  in  a  struggle  only 
to  be  paralleled  by  the  story  of  Richard  Savage. 
3  33 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

Buchanan  was  no  weak  man  to  cringe  before  the 
hard  blows  of  fortune  which  fell  in  swift  succession 
upon  him — neglect,  indifference,  scorn,  the  pinch  of 
hunger,  and  the  misery  of  homeless  squalor.  To 
him  London  was,  indeed,  what  De  Quincey  had  found 
it  before  him  —  a  stony-hearted  step-mother.  But 
step  by  step  he  fought  his  way  from  starvation  to 
comfort  —  from  an  apparently  hopeless  abyss  of 
obscurity  to  a  wide-spread  fame.  Whatever  may 
have  been  his  faults,  however  rash  his  speech  and 
unsympathetic  his  temperament,  no  one  who  is  in- 
terested in  the  calling  of  letters  can  refuse  to  him 
the  meed  of  honor  due  to  one  who  has  emerged  tri- 
umphantly from  a  struggle  which  must  have  proved 
fatal  to  all  but  the  bravest  of  the  brave.  The  first 
severity  of  the  struggle  was  over  when  Black,  wholly 
unversed  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  came  to  him  to 
share  the  modest  home  that  he  had  made  for  himself 
in  Camden  Town.  He  had  climbed  the  first  rungs 
of  the  ladder.  He  was  no  longer  the  shivering  out- 
cast whose  shelter  was  a  garret  and  his  next  meal  a 
problem.  It  would  be  base  ingratitude  if  Black's 
biographer  failed  to  acknowledge  the  service  that 
he  rendered  to  the  young  friend  of  his  Glasgow 
days  when  the  latter,  following  in  his  footsteps, 
came  in  his  turn  to  try  his  fate  in  London.  It  is  true 
that  Buchanan  had  been  not  merely  an  example, 
but  a  warning.  The  little  household  in  Glasgow 
had  heard  something  of  the  bitterness  of  the  fight 
which  he  had  waged  before  he  earned  recognition, 
and  the  prudent  mother  had  insisted  that  her  son 
should  not  expose  himself  to  a  fate  so  hard.     Black 

34 


DECLINES     AN     INVITATION 

was  at  least  secure  against  want  when  he  began  his 
career  in  London.  But  none  the  less  he  was  deeply 
indebted  to  the  comrade  who  had  gone  before  him 
in  the  fight,  who  knew  the  pitfalls  that  beset  the 
steps  of  the  novice,  and  who  could  teach  him  from 
his  own  hardly  bought  experience  the  lessons  that 
every  new-comer  in  the  great  arena  has  to  learn. 
Buchanan  was  a  true  friend  to  Black  in  those  days. 
Their  friendship  retained  its  warmth  for  several 
years;  and  then  something,  something  so  trivial 
that  no  one  can  now  recall  it,  severed  the  tie  that  had 
bound  them  together,  to  the  equal  loss,  I  imagine, 
of  both. 

It  is  said  that  on  the  morning  of  his  arrival  in 
London,  Black  was  invited  by  Buchanan,  after 
he  had  breakfasted,  to  go  out  for  a  walk,  in  order 
that  he  might  see  something  of  the  great  city  which 
he  proposed  to  make  his  home.  To  Buchanan's 
surprise  the  proposal  was  declined,  on  the  ground 
that  Black  had  an  article  on  hand  which  he  felt 
bound  to  finish  before  allowing  himself  any  time 
for  mere  recreation.  I  do  not  remember  hearing 
a  confirmation  of  this  story  from  Black's  own  lips; 
but  it  is  undoubtedly  one  that  those  who  knew  him 
in  his  younger  days  will  readily  believe.  All  through 
his  life,  indeed,  when  work  had  to  be  done,  no  thought 
of  pleasure  was  allowed  to  stand  in  the  way  of  its 
accomplishment.  So,  on  his  very  first  day  in  Lon- 
don, Black  completed  the  task  that  he  had  set  him- 
self, before  he  went  out  to  see  the  great  and  famous 
city  of  which  he  had  become  a  denizen.  This  par- 
ticular task  was,  I  imagine,  one  of  the  articles  in 

35 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

Once  a  Week  which  he  contributed  to  that  periodical 
during  his  later  days  in  Glasgow  and  his  early 
days  in  London.  A  day  or  two  later  he  commenced 
his  duties  in  Birchin  Lane  as  a  clerk  in  the  export 
department  of  Maitland,  Ewing  &  Company. 

He  was  specially  fortunate  in  having  among 
his  fellow-clerks  a  gentleman  who  was  already 
connected  in  some  degree  with  literature,  and  with 
the  writing  world  of  London.  This  was  Mr.  R.  S. 
Williams,  the  son  of  the  Mr.  Williams  who  has  earned 
a  place  of  his  own  in  the  annals  of  our  literature, 
owing  to  the  fact  that  he  was  the  first  person  to 
discover  the  genius  of  Charlotte  Bronte.  He  acted 
as  reader  in  the  publishing  house  of  Smith,  Elder 
&  Company,  and  all  the  world  knows  the  story  of 
how  the  manuscript  of  The  Professor  was  placed  in 
his  hands,  and  of  the  impression  which  it  made 
upon  him.  A  modest  and  retiring  man,  leading 
a  simple  life  in  the  quiet  little  house  in  which  he 
dwelt  with  his  family  in  the  neighborhood  of  Camp- 
den  Hill,  Mr.  Williams  was  still  a  person  of  reputation 
and  authority  in  literary  circles,  and  it  was  a  happy 
chance  that  brought  William  Black  so  quickly 
into  contact  with  his  refined  and  cultivated  family 
circle.  Mr.  Williams,  junior,  can  recall  to  this  day 
Black's  appearance  on  the  morning  on  which  he 
first  presented  himself  at  the  counting-house  in 
Birchin  Lane.  He  was  a  raw  youth,  dressed  in  a 
rather  rough  tweed  suit,  with  Berlin  wool  gloves 
on  his  hands,  and  a  hard  felt  hat  on  his  head — a 
very  different  figure  from  that  of  the  conventional 
city  clerk.     But  young  Mr.  Williams  had  no  sooner 

36 


LOVE    OF    CHILDREN 

set  eyes  on  him  than  he  felt  that  he  was  a  man  of 
whom  he  could  make  a  friend.  The  premonition  was 
true.  They  became  friends  at  once,  and  remained 
so  to  the  end  of  Black's  days.  A  clerk's  life  was 
not,  of  course,  that  which  Black  intended  to  lead, 
and  the  period  of  his  stay  in  Birchin  Lane  was  reck- 
oned only  in  months.  He  was  quick  to  respond  to 
the  hints  that  his  friend  and  other  colleagues  gave 
him  regarding  his  dress.  The  Berlin  wool  gloves 
were  dispensed  with,  and  he  became,  in  outward 
appearance,  at  all  events,  the  conventional  London 
clerk. 

A  few  memories  still  linger  with  regard  to  his 
career  in  Birchin  Lane.  The  clerks,  when  they 
were  working  overtime,  used  to  have  tea  together 
in  an  upper  room  in  the  house  which  the  partners 
used  for  luncheon.  The  caretaker  of  the  establish- 
ment had  a  little  daughter,  of  whom  the  clerks  made 
a  pet.  On  the  first  Christmas  that  he  spent  in  Lon- 
don— that  of  1863 — Black  discovered  in  this  upper 
room  a  little  Christmas-tree  that  the  child's  parents 
had  provided  for  her  amusement.  He  proposed  to 
his  friends  that  they  should  add  to  the  girl's  pleas- 
ure by  burying  in  the  soil  in  which  the  tree  was 
planted  a  few  small  silver  coins.  The  idea  was 
at  once  acted  upon,  and  the  child  enriched  accord- 
ingly. In  later  years  Black  was  very  fond  of  play- 
ing the  same  innocent  and  amiable  joke  upon  children 
whenever  the  opportunity  occurred.  He  was  in 
the  habit,  at  one  time,  of  walking  in  St.  James's 
Park;  and  here  he  caused  many  a  little  heart  to 
rejoice  by  the  gifts  of  sixpences  and  shillings  that 

37 


43204 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

he  would  secretly  conceal  among  the  cloaks  and 
hats  that  the  children  had  discarded  for  greater 
freedom  in  their  play.  He  delighted,  after  doing 
this,  to  retire  to  a  little  distance  in  order  to  observe 
the  effect  which  their  unexpected  good-fortune  had 
upon  the  recipients  of  these  tokens  of  his  friendship. 
He  was  a  very  simple-minded  youth  in  those  days 
in  Birchin  Lane;  and  Mr.  Williams  recalls  a  con- 
versation that  he  had  with  him  as  to  the  choice  of  a 
place  of  residence  when  the  time  came  for  him  to  set 
up  a  house  of  his  own.  He  had  looked  at  a  map 
of  London,  and  had  decided  in  his  own  mind  that 
the  Isle  of  Dogs  would  be  a  suitable  locality.  In 
the  mean  time,  while  he  faithfully  performed  his 
duties  in  Birchin  Lane,  his  pen  was  never  idle  during 
the  hours  that  he  could  call  his  own.  He  sent  con- 
tributions to  all  the  magazines  into  which  he  could 
hope  to  find  admittance,  and  made  the  usual  at- 
tempts of  a  young  writer  to  gain  a  footing  on  the 
daily  press.  Sir  Robert  Giffen's  account  of  him  at 
this  period  is  as  follows:  "It  was  in  the  begin- 
ning of  1864,  when  I  was  settled  in  London,  that 
I  first  saw  him  after  he  had  left  Glasgow.  I  met 
him  first  in  the  apartments  he  shared  with  Robert 
Buchanan  near  the  Camden  Road.  I  cannot  rec- 
ollect now  what  his  engagements  were;  but,  among 
others,  he  was  employed  by  Once  a  Week,  for  which 
he  wrote  a  good  deal  of  verse  as  well  as  prose  articles. 
My  impression  then  was  that  he  would  develop 
as  a  poet,  as  he  seemed  to  have  a  turn  for  verse- 
writing,  and  wrote  with  great  facility.  Previously 
to  meeting  him  in  London,  I  had  heard  from  him 

38 


THE     "MORNING    STAR" 

with  a  copy  of  his  first  separate  book,  called  James 
Merle :  an  Autobiography ,  which  he  had  published 
anonymously,  and  which  I  remember  noticing  in 
the  Globe  newspaper.  Black  himself  was  not  after- 
wards proud  of  his  youthful  performance,  and  did 
not  speak  of  it;  but  it  was  not  at  all  a  bad  at- 
tempt." 

It  was  by  something  like  an  accident  that  the 
young  novelist  at  last  obtained  the  footing  on  the 
press  for  which  he  longed  so  earnestly.  One  day 
in  a  railway  train  he  casually  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mr.  Alfred  Hutchinson  Dymond,  at  that 
time  the  manager  of  the  Morning  Star.  Mr.  Dy- 
mond was  struck  by  Black's  evident  ability;  and 
learning  from  him  that  he  was  anxious  for  journalistic 
work,  gave  him  an  introduction  to  the  late  Mr. 
Samuel  Lucas,  who  was  then  the  editor  of  the  Star, 
and  who  was  the  brother-in-law  of  Mr.  John  Bright. 
Mr.  Dymond  also  introduced  him  to  Mr.  Justin 
McCarthy,  at  that  time  the  foreign  editor  of  the 
Star.  "  Black  wrote  some  sketches  for  the  Star, 
in  which,"  says  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  "we  all  saw 
and  could  not  fail  to  see,  remarkable  merit;  and 
he  received  a  regular  engagement  in  one  of  the 
editorial  departments."  This,  of  course,  involved 
the  termination  of  the  brief  episode  of  work  in  Birchin 
Lane.  His  work  on  the  Star  was,  at  the  outset, 
comparatively  slight,  leaving  him  with  abundant 
leisure  for  the  magazine-writing  in  which  he  was 
steadily  making  his  way.  How  hard  he  labored 
at  this  occupation  may  be  gathered  from  the  follow- 
ing letter  to  his  old  Glasgow  friend,  Mr.  Whyte: 

39 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

To  Mr.  Whyte. 

9  Granby  Street, 

Monday  (1864). 
My  DEAR  WHYTE, — My  conscience  has  been  hurting 
me  with  regard  to  you;  but,  Lord  ha'  mussy,  what  can 
I  do?  I  have  just  finished  in  ten  days  thirty -eight  foolscap 
folio  sheets  of  MS.  closely  written  (152  pages  of  a  novel), 
for  which  I  get  £10,  as  Milton,  my  prototype,  got  for 
Paradise  Lost.  Besides  this,  in  the  same  time  I  have 
written  an  article  (see  "  The  Chronicles  of  My  Loves  " 
in  the  Household  Monthly),  and  other  performances,  until 
the  sight  of  a  blank  sheet  of  paper  prompts  hydrophobia 
within  me.     Nevertheless,  here  we  are !     As  I  asked  before, 

how  are  all  the  Glasgow  duffers?     M has  given  up 

painting  and  taken  to  wood-drawing,  which  he  will  find 
more  profitable.     (See  the  "  H.  M.  M."  for  two  or  three 

of  his  drawings.)     C has  gone  into  the  manufactory 

of  rustic  pictures  with  a  will.     They  call  me  here  the  Literary 

Mangle,  but  C beats  me  hollow :  I  think  Bob  said  you 

had  seen  my  last  Telegraph  paper.  My  next  one  I  shall 
send  you.  What  are  you  doing?  Does  the  Sunday  even- 
ing class  continue?  Remember  me  to  all  and  sundry, 
and  pray  for  a  good  summer,  that  I  may  see  your  face 
under  happy  effects. 

Work  of  all  kinds  began  to  flow  in  upon  Black, 
as  it  is  apt  to  do  when  a  man  has  both  adaptability 
and  industry,  and  is  eager  to  find  occupation. 
While  still  writing  for  the  Morning  Star,  and  con- 
tributing regularly  to  many  magazines,  he  under- 
took the  editorship  of  the  London  Review,  a  weekly 
journal  which  never  came  writhin  measurable  dis- 
tance of  pecuniary  success.  It  wras  no  more  of  a 
success  in  the  hands  of  Black  than  in  those  of  his 

40 


SUCCESS    AS    DESCRIPTIVE    WRITER 

predecessors  in  the  editorship.  It  may  be  doubted, 
indeed,  whether  Black  had  it  in  him  to  become  a 
good  editor.  He  was  too  keenly  interested  in  his 
own  particular  subjects  to  be  able  to  exercise  that 
universal  intellectual  hospitality  which  is  the  in- 
dispensable qualification  of  the  born  editor.  He 
could  not  open  his  mind  to  receive  topics  in  which 
he  felt  no  personal  interest.  For  him  there  were 
certain  realities  in  life,  the  chief  of  which  at  this 
period  was  art.  Outside  these  realities  he  saw 
nothing  that  seemed  worthy  of  his  attention,  ex- 
cept as  a  mere  means  of  making  money.  It  may 
be  said  at  once,  therefore,  that  his  editorship  of 
the  London  Review  was  not  a  success,  nor  was  that 
of  the  Examiner,  which  he  undertook  for  a  few 
months  at  a  later  period.  But  his  colleagues  on 
the  Star  had  discovered  one  direction  in  which 
his  strength  as  a  writer  undoubtedly  lay.  This 
was  his  descriptive  writing.  Wherever  he  went, 
he  carried  with  him  a  keen  eye  that  could  see 
everything  that  was  distinctive  or  worth  seeing 
in  the  scene  he  had  to  sketch.  But  he  had  some- 
thing better  than  this  power  of  minute  observation. 
He  had  the  artistic  temperament  that  enabled 
him  to  adorn  everything  he  touched.  His  descrij)- 
tive  writing  for  the  Star  was  illuminated  both  by 
the  rays  of  his  own  fancy  and  by  the  light  which 
he  borrowed  from  literature;  and  even  in  those 
early  days  the  reader  of  the  Radical  journal  rec- 
ognized the  touch  of  a  new  hand  in  its  columns, 
and  found  pleasure  in  descriptions  that  were  not 
merely   curiously   accurate,    but   brilliant   in   color, 

4i 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

and  lightened  by  certain  graceful  artifices  which, 
at  that  time  at  all  events,  were  new  in  the  daily  press. 
It  was  while  he  was  rejoicing  in  the  fact  that  he 
had  secured  for  himself  a  permanent  income  as  a 
journalist  that  his  life  entered  upon  a  new  phase. 
He  married.  He  met  Augusta  Wenzel  at  the  house 
of  Robert  Buchanan.  She  was  of  German  birth— a 
gentle  and  amiable  woman,  for  whom  Black  enter- 
tained a  sincere  affection. 

To  Mr.  Whyte. 

9  Granby  Street, 

Saturday  Night  (1865). 
Bless  you,  my  dear  boy,  bless  you!  Now  I  am  proud 
of  you,  and  am  proud  to  have  had  even  the  slightest  in- 
fluence in  effecting  your  conversion.  You  have  done 
wisely  and  well,  and  already  the  altered  tone  of  your  writ- 
ing is  comforting  to  my  parental  heart.  Seriously,  I 
don't  believe  you  could  have  made  a  better  choice,  and 
that  is  saying  a  great  deal  in  such  a  matter  as  marriage. 
I  believe  if  you  had  married  one  of  the  ordinary,  addle- 
brained,  butterfly  young  women,  you  would  have  sunk 
into  a  state  of  perfect  indifference  in  six  months,  though 
I  believe  you  would  always  have  been  courteous  to  her, 
and  not  quarrelled  with  her.     I  am  afraid  there  would  be 

a  slight  redundancy  in  my  saying  anything  of  Miss . 

You,  who  are  bound  in  links  of  the  daisy-chain,  would 
scorn  an  outsider's  idea  of  her  graces  and  excellences. 
There  is  only  one  thing  which  I,  as  your  father,  and  look- 
ing at  your  future  welfare,  must  mention.  In  the  con- 
clusion of  your  note  you  speak  slightingly  of  bitter  beer. 
I  feel  insulted.  I  will  not  have  an  old  and  valued  friend 
maligned ;  and  what  I  have  to  say  is  to  make  a  marriage 
stipulation  that  beer  will  not  be  prohibited  on  the  premises. 

42 


HIS     FIRST    MARRIAGE 

Else  how  could  I  and  my  wife  (though  she  doesn't  drink 
beer)  come  and  visit  you  in  June? 

Which  brings  me  to  the  second  head  of  my  discourse. 
I  believe  there  was  a  small  bet  as  to  whether  you  or  I  should 
be  married  first.  I'll  trouble  you,  frater  meus,  to  stump 
up.  If  the  milliners  and  other  heavenly  bodies  be  pro- 
pitious I  shall  be  married  in  three  weeks.     To  whom? 

'Tis   a   blue-eyed   German   maiden   who   hath   stolen 
my  heart  from  me." 

A  little,  graceful,  phlegmatic,  sensitive,  and  warm- 
hearted lassie,  who  speaks  English  remarkably  well, 
considering  that  she  has  only  been  a  year  in  England. 
Her  parents  and  friends  are  all  in  Germany,  wherefore 
she  and  I  are  going  to  retire  into  private  life  and  bury 
ourselves  in  the  rusticities  of  Hounslow  (thirteen  miles 
from  London),  if  I  can  pick  up  a  bucolical  residence  there. 
I  have  to  get  this  blessed  house  and  furnish  it  in  three 
weeks!  And  if  you  doubt  that  this  yellow-haired  angel 
has  all  the  perfections  under  the  sun,  ask  Mr.  Madia wrin. 
And  I  send  you  my  warmest  benedictions,  and  I  pray 

you  to  commend  me  to  Miss  ,  and  say  that  I  have 

forgiven  her  not  answering  my  last  letter,  written  in  the 
prehistoric  ages,  and  I  hope  you  will  call  down  an  orthodox 
blessing  on  the  head  of  Augusta  Wenzel,  late  of  Carlsruhe. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

It  was  on  the  8th  of  April,  1865,  that  Black 
and  Miss  Wenzel  were  married  in  Hammersmith 
Church.  His  old  friend  at  Birchin  Lane,  Mr. 
Smith  Williams,  acted  as  best  man.  That  gentle- 
man's sisters  had  been  pressed  into  his  service  by 
the  young  bridegroom  so  far  as  the  furnishing 
of  the  modest  house  at  Hounslow  was  concerned. 

43 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

The   time,   as   the  foregoing   letter   indicates,   was 
brief,  and  in  the  end  Black's  first  home  of  his  own 
was  but  scantily  furnished,  though  his  friends  did 
their  best,  even  to  the  extent  of  lending  some  nec- 
essary  articles  of  domestic    use  which   there  had 
not  been  time  to  purchase.     The  day  of  his  mar- 
riage was  that  fixed  for  the  university  boat-race, 
and  Mr.  Williams  remembers  how  he  and  the  bride- 
groom drove  through  the  great  crowds  proceeding  to 
the  river-side  on  their  way  to  Hammersmith  Church. 
In  one  respect  the  proceedings  at  the  wedding  were 
distinctly  unconventional.        Black  had  secured  a 
very  high  phaeton  in  which  he  and  his  best  man 
drove  to  the  church.     As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was 
over  he  and  his  young  bride  climbed  into  the  vehicle, 
and  drove  off  to  their  little  house  at  Hounslow,  where 
they  spent  their  honeymoon  in  peace  and  seclusion. 
That  little  house  was  to  be  the  scene  of  the  first 
great  trial  of  Black's  life.       He  spent  some  happy 
months  in  it  with  his  wife,  and  those  friends  who 
visited  them  found  him  engrossed  in  his  journalistic 
work,  but  keenly  alive  to  his  domestic  joys.     In  the 
beginning  of  1866  a  son,  Martin,  was  born.    A  month 
or  two  later  the  heaviest  of  all  possible  blows  fell  un- 
expectedly on  Black.      His  wife  contracted  a  fever, 
which  ended  fatally  on  May  14,  1 866,  barely  thir- 
teen months  after  the  ceremony  at  Hammersmith 
Church.     I  have  spoken  of  that  reticence  with  regard 
to  his  own  inner  life  which  Black  had  inherited  from 
his  Scotch  ancestors.     It  was  never  more  strikingly 
illustrated  than  at  this  period,  and  five  years  later, 
when  his  little  boy  followed  his  mother  to  the  grave. 

44 


DEATH    OF    WIFE    AND    CHILD 

It  would  not  be  seemly  to  try  to  lift  the  veil  and  peer 
into  Black's  heart  in  those  hours  of  deepest  sor- 
row. He  was  never  one  who  wore  his  heart  upon  his 
sleeve;  and  he  often  seemed  to  lack  the  power  of 
confiding  his  deepest  emotions  even  to  those  who 
knew  him  best.  That  he  suffered  intensely  in  the 
bereavement  which  broke  up  his  home  and  sent 
him  back  to  the  outer  world  in  widowed  loneliness 
was  known  to  all  his  friends.  But  they  knew  it 
from  what  they  could  see  for  themselves,  not  from 
what  they  heard  from  his  own  lips.  None  of  them 
dared  to  speak  to  him  of  his  grief,  and  in  after  years 
he  never  referred  to  this  early  loss  of  wife  and  child. 
But  from  that  time  onward  he  struck  a  new  and 
deeper  note  in  his  writings  than  he  had  ever  done 
before.  He  had  drunk  deep  of  the  waters  of  life, 
and  no  matter  what  joy  the  future  had  in  store  for 
him — and  it  had  much — the  world  was  never  again 
quite  the  same  place  to  him  that  it  had  been  before 
this  sore  stroke  of  fate  befell  him,  and  he  was  left, 
in  John  Bright's  classic  phrase,  "with  none  living 
of  his  own  household  save  a  motherless  babe." 

Black  learned,  as  so  many  men  similarly  placed 
have  learned  before  and  since,  that  the  only  as- 
suagement of  his  pain  was  to  be  found  in  work;  so 
into  work  he  flung  himself  with  renewed  energy 
after  the  death  of  his  wife  and  the  breaking  up  of 
his  home  at  Hounslow.  The  seven  weeks'  war 
between  Prussia  and  Austria  was  the  chief  event 
of  the  summer  of  1866,  and  he  secured  a  commission 
from  the  Star  to  write  letters  from  Germany  on  the 
subject.     It  would  hardly  be  correct  to  speak  of  him 

45 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

as  a  "  war  correspondent."  Certainly,  in  the  modern 
sense  of  the  word,  he  was  not  that.  He  did  not  ride 
or  march  with  the  advance-guard  of  either  army, 
telegraphing  from  the  field  descriptions  more  or 
less  imaginary  of  the  struggles  of  the  opposing 
troops.  To  begin  with,  there  was  no  telegraphic 
correspondence  from  battle-fields  in  those  days; 
and  if  there  had  been,  Black  was  not  the  man  to 
supply  the  public  with  it.  What  he  did  during  his 
brief  experience  in  this  campaign  of  1866  was  to 
follow  the  Prussian  army  with  the  hospital  staff  in 
its  advance  into  Austria,  and  to  write  descriptions 
of  the  scenes  he  witnessed  that  were  none  the  less 
truthful  and  graphic  because  in  some  cases  he  pre- 
sented them  to  the  readers  of  the  Star  under  the 
guise  of  fiction.  He  never  republished  these  sketches 
of  a  country  in  the  midst  of  war;  but  some  of  them 
were  singularly  bright  and  vivid,  and  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  they  attracted  the  attention  of  the  pub- 
lic, and  brought  his  name  into  greater  prominence 
among  the  journalists  of  the  day  than  had  attached 
to  it  previously.  He  was  not  actually  present  at 
the  great  battle  of  Sadowa,  but  he  visited  the  battle- 
field as  soon  as  civilians  were  allowed  to  do  so  after 
the  fight,  and  he  penned  a  grewsome  account  of  its 
horrors.  At  that  time,  however,  he  had  not  yet 
"found  himself,"  and  he  was  more  at  home  in  writ- 
ing pleasant  little  sketches  of  scenes  by  the  way — 
in  road-side  inns,  country  towns,  and  railway  sta- 
tions— than  in  describing  the  realities  of  war. 

This  Prussian  experience  of  his  did  more  than 
make  his  name  familiar  among  the   journalists  of 


MEETING    WITH    HIS    BIOGRAPHER 

London.  It  strengthened  his  affection  for  German 
literature  and  the  German  character.  One  may 
well  assume  that  his  marriage  to  Miss  Wenzel  had 
in  itself  been  at  once  the  fruit  and  the  stimulus  of 
his  sympathy  with  Germany  and  the  Germans. 
He  had  been  drawn  towards  their  literature  while 
still  a  very  young  man.  His  union  with  a  German 
wife  drew  him  into  close  and  intimate  sympathy 
wth  German  views  of  life.  It  needed  only  his  ex- 
perience of  the  war  to  make  him  enthusiastically 
German  in  his  sympathies,  both  literary  and  polit- 
ical. He  came  back  from  Prague,  where  he  had  his 
headquarters  during  the  brief  but  fatal  campaign, 
an  ardent  admirer  of  German  song,  German  letters, 
German  music,  and,  above  all,  of  the  German  char- 
acter. Every  reader  of  his  stories  knows  how  fre- 
quently his  sympathies  with  the  great  Teutonic 
nation  were  allowed  to  peep  forth  in  his  books,  and 
all  his  personal  friends  know  his  affection  for  those 
German  songs  in  which  he  delighted  as  much  as  in 
the  ballads  of  his  own  country.  Thus  his  Celtic 
enthusiasm  and  passion  became  blended  with  the 
steadying  influence  of  the  literature  and  thought  of 
the  Fatherland,  a  rare  combination  somewhat  akin 
to  that  which  made  Heine  in  his  day  a  representa- 
tive at  once  of  the  Teutonic  and  the  Latin  spirit. 

It  was  in  this  year,  1866,  that  my  own  personal 
acquaintance  with  Black  began.  I  met  him  at 
some  function  in  a  provincial  town  which  we  both 
attended  as  journalists.  Accident  threw  us  to- 
gether, and  we  spent  an  hour  or  more  in  pleasant 
talk.     He  seemed  pleased  to  find  that  I  had  heard 

47 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

his  name  and  knew  him  by  repute,  and  he  received 
his  provincial  colleague  in  all  friendliness.     What 
struck  me  at  that  first  meeting  with  the  man  who, 
in  after  years,  was  to  be  so  dear  to  me,  was  his  air 
of  abstraction.     He  seemed  to   have  his  thoughts 
absorbed  by  quite  other  things  than  those  which 
were  passing  around  him.     His  very  eyes  seemed 
to  be  fixed  upon  the  future;  and  while  he  talked 
pleasantly   enough   on   such   small    topics    as    our 
surroundings  suggested,  his  mind  was  clearly  oc- 
cupied elsewhere.     From  some  one  or  other — I  know 
not  from  whom — I  had  heard  that  he  either  had 
written  or  was  about  to  write  a  novel.     I  was  at  the 
age  when  one  is  most  susceptible   to   the   illusions 
and  enthusiasms  of  youth;  and  I  remember  trying 
to  weigh  up  my  companion  and  forecast  his  chances 
as  a  novelist.     It  struck  me,  as  it  struck  most  per- 
sons when  they  first  met  him,  that  he  was  too  hard, 
inelastic,  and  reticent  to  be  successful  as  a  writer 
of  romance.     I  was  no  more  able  than  other  people 
were  to  penetrate  through  that  mask  of  reserve  which 
he  wore  so  constantly,  or  to  see  the  fires  of  sensitive 
emotion  which  burned  within.     He  was  dressed  in 
deep  mourning,  when  I  thus  saw  him  for  the  first 
time,  and  on  his  face  rested  the  shadow  which  told 
of  the  sorrow  through  which  he  had  passed. 

Mr.  E.  D.  J.  Wilson,  the  well-known  journalist, 
who  had  made  Black's  acquaintance  before  I  did, 
has  furnished  me  with  some  pleasant  reminiscences 
of  their  friendship  at  this  and  subsequent  periods. 

"It  was  some  time  in  December,  1865,"  writes 
Mr.  Wilson,  "that  I  first  met  William  Black.     He 

48 


WORK    ON    THE    "MORNING     STAR' 

had  then  been  for  a  few  months  engaged  as  a  sub- 
ordinate in  the  editorial  room  of  the  Morning  Star, 
of  which  Mr.  Bright  was  practically  the  proprietor, 
as  trustee  for  his  widowed  sister,  Mrs.  Lucas,  Mr. 
Justin  McCarthy  being  the  editor,  and  Mr.  Charles 
Cooper,  now  of  the  Scotsman,  the  assistant  editor. 
Black,  who  was  interested  in  Continental  languages, 
especially  German,  was  occupied  a  good  deal,  I 
fancy,  with  the  foreign  news;  but  he  also  wrote 
literary  articles  and  short  sketches,  in  which  he 
displayed  a  peculiar  grace  of  style.  Among  the 
regular  members  of  the  editorial  staff  the  principal 
writers  were  E.  R.  Russell  (now  Sir  Edward),  after- 
wards editor  of  the  Liverpool  Daily  Post  and  a  mem- 
ber of  Parliament;  John  Gorric,  afterwards  knighted 
as  a  West  Indian  judge;  F.  W.  Chesson,  the  well- 
known  secretary  of  the  Aborigines  Protection  So 
ciety;  Edmund  Yates,  who  wrote  a  column  of  so- 
cial gossip  under  the  title  of  'The  Flaneur';  and 
Leicester  Buckingham,  the  dramatic  critic.  Some 
younger  men,  too,  had  begun  to  write  humorous 
or  descriptive  articles  in  the  evening  issue  of  the 
paper,  among  them  Richard  Whiteing  and  George 
Manville  Fenn.  I  began  myself  to  contribute  lead- 
ing articles  on  political  and  social  subjects  in  De- 
cember, 1865,  and  as  I  became  a  regular  and  fre- 
quent contributor,  I  found  myself  admitted  to  the 
inner  circle  of  the  office,  and  often  met  Black  at  the 
five-o'clock  tea-table,  where  McCarthy  and  Cooper 
saw  their  colleagues  and  talked  over  business.  It 
was  at  a  rather  later  date,  however,  that  Black  and  I 
became  intimate.  McCarthy,  the  kindest  and  most 
4  49 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

hospitable  of  men,  and  his  excellent  wife,  were  de- 
lighted to  receive  their  friends  in  an  informal  and 
unconventional  style  at  their  old-fashioned  house 
in  Kennington  Park.  Many  of  those  I  have  men- 
tioned as  connected  with  the  Morning  Star  used  to 
gather  around  a  simple  supper-table,  and  talk  or 
listen  long  after  we  had  heard  the  chimes  at  mid- 
night. Black  and  a  special  friend  of  his,  William 
Barry,  a  brilliant  young  Irishman,  who  had  come 
over  from  Dublin  to  edit  the  London  Revieiv,  were 
among  the  frequent  visitors  at  McCarthy's  house 
in  1866-67;  and  Whiteing,  Fenn,  Russell,  and  oth- 
ers, including  myself,  were  constant  guests.  Some- 
times an  interesting  foreign  figure  appeared — Louis 
Blanc,  or  Gottfried  Kinkel — for  our  host  was  deeply 
in  sympathy  at  that  time  with  the  revolutionary 
politics  of  the  Continent.  Black  and  Barry  and  I 
often  walked  away  together,  and  after  a  while  began 
to  project  country  rambles  and  little  festivities  in 
rural  or  up-river  inns.  It  was  Black,  I  well  remem- 
ber, who  introduced  me  to  the  beauties  of  that  de- 
lightful stretch  of  country  between  Reigate  and 
Guildford,  Leatherhead  and  Ockley.  I  walked  with 
them  alone  —  it  must  have  been  shortly  after  his 
return  from  his  brief  experience  as  a  special  cor- 
respondent in  Bohemia  in  1866 — along  the  Leather- 
head  and  Mickleham  Downs  on  a  lovely  day  in 
autumn,  and  I  was  greatly  struck  even  then  by  the 
extreme  keenness  of  his  perception  of  every  detail  of 
nature.  It  was  not  merely  that  he  rejoiced  visibly 
in  the  large,  picturesque  effects  of  a  rolling  land- 
scape, or  the  glowing  colors  of  a  sunset  among  the 

50 


LOVE    OF    GERMAN     LITERATURE 

hills,  but  still  more  that  no  detail  of  animal  or  vege- 
table life  escaped  him.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  be 
his  companion  in  a  walk,  for  this,  as  well  as  other 
reasons.  Though  in  general  society  Black,  espe- 
cially at  this  time,  was  rather  reserved,  he  was  by 
no  means  a  silent  man  when  with  one  or  two  people 
to  whom  he  could  open  his  mind  with  an  assurance 
that  he  would  not  be  misunderstood.  On  literary 
questions  he  was  very  interesting,  and  almost  al- 
ways generously  appreciative  of  the  work  of  others, 
however  different  from  his  own.  No  one  read  or  re- 
cited poetry  of  a  certain  kind  with  more  feeling  and 
expression.  At  the  time  I  speak  of  he  occasionally 
wrote  verses  himself.  Indeed,  at  a  later  day  he 
sometimes  introduced  his  own  verses  into  his  novels ; 
but  I  think  he  recognized  very  soon  that  poetic  prose 
was  his  forte.  In  the  early  days  of  my  intimacy 
with  him  he  took  much  delight  in  German  literature, 
and  in  German  poetry  in  particular.  This  formed 
a  bond  between  us.  His  German  sympathies  are 
visible  in  his  earlier  novels.  They  became  stronger 
after  his  visit  to  the  seat  of  war  in  1866,  when  he  was 
enthusiastically  on  the  side  of  Prussia,  as  he  was 
afterwards  still  more  enthusiastically  on  the  side  of 
Germany  during  the  greater  struggle  of  1870.  I 
never  met  his  first  wife,  who  died  early,  and  left  a  lit- 
tle boy  who  soon  followed  her  to  the  grave.  When  I 
knew  him  first,  and  for  several  years  after,  his  mother 
kept  house  for  him,  first  at  Catherine  Terrace,  not 
far  from  Clapham  Common,  and  from  1872  till  1874 
at  Camberwell  Grove." 

As  the  reader  will  have  gathered  from  Mr.  Wil- 

5i 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

son's  statement,  Black  established  himself  in  the 
autumn  of  1866  in  a  modest  house — No.  4  Cather- 
ine Terrace,  Lansdowne  Road,  Clapham — in  which 
he  was  to  reside  for  several  years.  Here,  to  his  great 
comfort,  he  had  the  companionship  of  his  mother, 
who  left  Glasgow  in  order  to  keep  house  for  her 
son  and  bestow  a  mother's  love  upon  his  infant 
child.  He  himself  was  very  busy  at  this  time,  writ- 
ing for  the  Star  and  the  monthly  magazines,  editing 
the  London  Review  and  enlarging  his  circle  of  friends 
among  the  journalists  and  writers  of  the  metropolis. 
He  was  beginning  in  a  modest  way  to  figure  in  the 
literary  world.  He  had  on  the  stocks  the  first  novel 
he  had  attempted  since  James  Merle.  This  was 
Love  or  Marriage.  Writing  to  his  old  friend  John 
Whyte,  he  gives  an  amusing  picture  of  his  life  and 
surroundings  at  the  end  of  1866 : 

To  Mr.  Whyte. 

4  Catherine  Terrace, 
Lansdowne  Road,  Clapham, 
Sunday  Night  (1866). 

It  is  now  the  witching  hour  of  twelve,  when  all  decent 
people  yawn  and  wish  to  go  to  bed.  Yet  I  remain  up, 
in  order  to  tell  you  that  I  forgive  you  for  never  having 
answered  my  last  three  or  four  letters.  A  variety  of  cir- 
cumstances compel  me  to  write  to  you.  Preparing  for  a 
journey  to-day,  I  came  across  some  old  numbers  of  The 
Citizen,  and  there  found  side  by  side  John  Barnacle  and 
Daisy,  along  with  some  things  of  my  own  that  ought  to 
have  sent  me  to  a  lunatic  asylum.  Then  I  had  a  note 
yesterday  from  a  young  lady  you  may  remember,  called 

,  and  the  very  handwriting  recalled  the  dismal  sights 

and  sounds  of  Glasgow.     But  what  am  I  to  write  about? 

52 


AN     AMUSING     PERSON 

Shall  I  relate  to  your  private  ear  something  about  the 
Bohemian  war  which  dare  not  be  put  in  print?  No;  for 
I  have  been  struck  in  reading  over  these  Citizens  with  the 
utter  provincialism  of  the  Glasgow  people  in  respect  of 
their  indifference  to  whatever  happens  abroad,  so  long 
as  it  doesn't  affect  the  sale  of  cotton.  So  I  think  I  shall 
tell  you  and  your  wife  of  a  character  whom  I  met  the  other 

evening  at  a  little  party.     You  must  know  that  Dr. is 

a  very  modest,  nice  little  girl,  and  she  it  was  who  brought 
as  chaperon  to  this  small  meeting  the  person  of  whom  I 
am  going  to  tell  you.  She — the  latter — was  an  elderly 
lady  of  much  shortness  and  stoutness,  dressed  in  bloomer 
costume,  with  short  gray  curls  all  round  her  head.  She 
sat  down  by  Dr.  Chapman,  the  editor  of  the  Westminster 
Review,  and  immediately  opened  upon  him  with  regard 
to  homceopathy  and  spiritualism,  with  a  mixture  of  im- 
pudence and  naivete  and  weak  metaphysics  which  floored 
him  entirely.  He  was  lost.  Then  she  drank  a  little  too 
much  champagne  at  supper,  and,  seizing  upon  a  young 
fellow  of  great  bashfulness — a  Spectator  man — she  at- 
tacked him  about  the  vices  of  married  women,  he  blushing 
horribly  all  the  time.  "  Why,"  she  said,  "  how  many 
of  your  lady  acquaintances  could  you  take  out  with  you 
for  a  walk  of  ten  miles  without  laying  them  up  for  a  week?" 
"  I  couldn't  do  it  myself,"  he  said,  simply.  She  said 
people  were  improperly  matched  in  this  world.  All  spirits 
were  dual.  For  her  part,  she  knew  hers  was  a  masculine 
spirit,  and  that  in  the  next  world  she  would  seek  out  some 
gentle,  effeminate  spirit.  I  suggested  to  her  that  this 
bashful  young  person  might  form  the  requisite  affinity, 
though  he  privately  was  of  opinion  that  the  possibility 
was  adding  a  new  terror  to  heaven.  Then  she  diverged 
into  phrenology,  and  was  particularly  severe  upon  the 
editor  of  the  London  Review,  whom  she  said  she  would 
not  trust  three  inches.     But  I  cannot  give  you  an  idea 

53 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

of  the  singular  appearance  of  this  elderly  person,  stand- 
ing with  her  back  to  the  fire,  her  arms  akimbo,  preaching 
thin  Swedenborgianism  to  the  Star  editor,  who  looked 
down  upon  her  with  a  grave  bewilderment.  She  is  no 
American,  but  an  English  woman  of  some  means,  and  is, 
unfortunately  for  her  husband,  married.  .  .  . 

Does  Glasgow  stand  where  she  did,  and  the  West  End 
Park,  and  Sauchiehall  Street?  As  for  myself,  the  old 
literary  tread -mill  revolves  as  usual.  I  have  engaged 
myself  for  a  series  of  articles  to  London  Society,  the  first 
of  which  will  appear  next  month.  There  will  also  be  a 
contribution  to  Fraser,  Froude  says,  at  the  same  time. 
Then  I  have  the  German  politics  of  the  Star  to  do ;  "  Star- 
light Readings,"  etc.,  etc.  Are  you  coming  up  to  London 
this  summer?  We  have  lots  of  room  for  you  and  your 
wife.  I  am  going  to  drive  down  to  Hastings  to-morrow 
with  Buchanan  and  his  wife,  and  may  not  return  for  a 
week  or  ten  days. 

Ever  yours  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

Another  letter  of  the  same  period — to  Mr.  Smith 
Williams — touches  with  characteristic  brevity  and 
reserve  upon  some  of  those  deeper  problems  which 
always  had  a  strong  fascination  for  Black's  mind, 
though  it  was  but  rarely  that  he  could  be  induced 
to  discuss  them,  even  with  his  most  intimate  friends : 

DEAR  WILLIAMS, — I  cannot  allow  you  to  remain  under 
the  impression  that  I  have  edited  this  week's  London  Re- 
view. My  first  number  will  appear  on  September  1 2th, 
a  fortnight  hence.  .  .  .  Your  idea  of  a  weekly  paper 
full  of  guts  was  embodied  in  the  Chronicle,  which  died 
a  few  months  ago  because  nobody  would  buy  it.  Your 
idea  of  a  morning  paper  would  die  for  the  same  reason. 

54 


BLACK'S    COLLEAGUES    ON    "STAR" 

The  difficulty  is  to  give  people  enough  for  their  penny. 
A  few  City  men  will  not  make  a  paper  pay. 

Your  idea  of  the  precocious  child  is  not  bad;  but  you, 
like  most  people,  are  hampered  by  the  unconscious  tram- 
mels of  your  early  theology.  Where  did  you  get  that 
metaphysical  idea  of  a  purpose  existing  before  you,  and 
having  an  interest  in  your  life?  How  do  you  know  you 
were  "  put  upon  this  earth  "  for  anything?  Being  there, 
your  business  is  to  make  the  best  of  life.  And  here  you 
come  into  the  practical  questions  of  sociology,  which  tend 
to  show  that  the  best  you  can  do  for  society  is  the  best  you 
can  do  for  yourself,  and  that,  as  a  corollary,  self-denial 
and  benevolence,  though  thus  derivable  from  self-interest, 
are  the  highest  duties  and  offer  the  highest  pleasures. 
But  these  are  things  not  to  be  disposed  of  on  half  a  sheet 
of  note-paper.  May  God  give  you  good  health  and  the 
rank  of  general,  as  the  Russians  say. 

Yours  always, 

W.  Black. 

P.S. — You  will  find  all  that  business  about  the  con- 
ditions of  life  treated,  so  far  as  I  know  anything  about 
them,  in  Love  or  Marriage. 

Gradually  Black  gained  a  surer  foothold  in  the 
literary  society  of  London  as  it  existed  in  that  period. 
His  connection  with  the  Morning  Star  in  itself  fur- 
nished him  with  the  means  of  enlarging  his  circle 
of  acquaintances.  "Among  Black's  colleagues  on 
the  editorial  staff  of  the  Star  at  that  time,"  says 
Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  "were  Sir  Edward  Russell, 
now  editor  of  the  Liverpool  Daily  Post,  who  distin- 
guished himself  as  a  debater  during  his  too  short 
career  in  the  House  of  Commons,  Charles  Cooper, 
afterwards  editor  of  the  Scotsman,  E.  D.  J.  Wilson, 

55 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

now  of  the  Times,  and  the  late  F.  W.  Chesson.     We 
had  a  five-o'clock  tea  at  that  time  in  the  largest  room 
of  the  Morning  Star  every  evening,  and  there  we 
talked  over,  and  made  arrangements  for,  the  leading 
articles  and  other  contributions  to  appear  next  morn- 
ing.    I  have  the  most  delightful  recollection  of  the 
talks  and  discussions  we  used  to  have  at  these  gath- 
erings, the  encounters  of  wit  and  humor,  the  cut 
and  thrust  of  argument,   the  varieties  of  opinion, 
and  the  all-prevailing  good-fellowship.     Black's  wit 
and  humor  were  as  ready  as  his  shrewd  judgment 
was  steady  and  calm."     It  was  not,  however,   in 
the  Star  office  alone  that  Black  met  with  the  rising 
pressmen    of    his    day.     His    connection    with    the 
weekly  press  of  London,  and  with  the  magazines, 
opened  up  to  him  a  wider  social  field,  and,  as  the 
instinct  of  hospitality  was  strong  in  the  heart  of  the 
young  Scotsman,  he  began  to  gather  round  him- 
self a  circle  of  his  own.     From  the  very  first,  indeed, 
it  was  in  his  own  house  that  he  appeared  in  the 
brightest  colors.     It  has  already  been  told  how  he 
never    shone   in    mixed    society.     The   presence   of 
strangers  too  often  seemed  to  chill  him  or  to  con- 
fuse him.     He  must,  I  feel  certain,  have  been  thor- 
oughly at  home  at  those  afternoon  teas  at  the  office 
of    the   Morning    Star.     The    unforced    but    never- 
failing  geniality  of  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy  probably 
had  its  effect  in  leading  Black  to  talk  with  more 
freedom  at  those  gatherings  than  he  did  elsewhere. 
Otherwise  I  should  have  felt  inclined  to  doubt  Mr. 
McCarthy's  testimony  to  his  share  in  the  discus- 
sions of  those  daily  tea-parties.     In  his  own  house, 

56 


STRONG     LIKES    AND    DISLIKES 

however,  he  was  never  afflicted  by  the  shyness  which 
troubled  him  in  general  society,  though  even  there 
he  was  just  as  well  content  to  be  a  listener  as 
a  speaker;  and  there  were  notable  people  in  those 
days  to  whom  he  was  privileged  to  listen.  Mr.  Swin- 
burne, who  made  his  acquaintance  when  they  were 
both  writing  for  the  Examiner,  Mr.  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton,  the  late  Professor  Minto,  and  many  others 
in  the  writing  world  of  that  epoch  were  among  his 
friends.  Even  then  one  marked  peculiarity  which 
distinguished  him  to  the  end  of  his  days  was  mani- 
fest. This  was  the  strength  of  his  likes  and  dis- 
likes with  regard  to  the  men  and  women  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact.  If  he  liked  a  man  or  a  woman 
he  did  so  with  all  his  heart,  and  he  would  wax  en- 
thusiastic about  the  merits  of  some  in  whom  the 
outside  world  had  never  discovered  any  special  vir- 
tue. On  the  other  hand,  when  he  conceived  any 
suspicion  of  an  acquaintance,  he  did  not  conceal  the 
fact  from  his  friends ;  and  when  his  suspicion  turned 
to  positive  dislike,  the  emphasis  with  which  he  gave 
expression  to  his  feelings  was  almost  startling.  He 
was  not  one  of  those  persons,  too  numerous  in  this 
self-seeking  world,  who  can  maintain  an  attitude 
of  smooth  neutrality  in  the  face  of  their  acquaint- 
ances. And  for  this  very  reason  he  attracted  all 
who  could  admire  a  strong  nature,  not  afraid  to 
praise  warmly,  or  to  condemn  severely,  where  praise 
or  blame  seemed  to  be  deserved.  So  it  followed 
that  in  his  house  in  Catherine  Terrace  he  drew 
around  him  a  little  band  of  friends  and  admirers 
who  regarded  him  with  feelings  of  esteem  as  strong 

57 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

and   positive   as    those   which   he    entertained   for 
them. 

His  friend  Mr.  Wilson,  speaking  of  the  days  in 
Catherine  Terrace,  says:  "In  the  latter  part  of  1868, 
or  the  beginning  of  1869,  both  Black  and  I  ceased 
to  be  connected  with  the  Morning  Star,  then  near 
its  setting.  We  saw  less  of  one  another  for  a  short 
time,  though,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  Black  wrote 
sometimes  for  the  Echo,  on  which  I  had  become  a 
leader-writer,  under  Mr.  (now  Sir  Arthur)  Arnold.  I 
think  it  was  about  this  time  that  he  introduced  me 
to  a  little  dining-club,  the  Whitefriars,  which  met 
at  Radley's  Hotel  in  Burleigh  Street,  long  since 
pulled  down.  There  we  met  once  a  week  at  a  mildly 
Bohemian  dinner  and  a  prolonged  tobacco  parlia- 
ment. A  year  or  two  afterwards,  when  Black  was 
engaged  at  the  Daily  Neivs  office,  he  was  still  a  con- 
stant attendant  at  the  Whitefriars  dinner;  but  the 
place  of  meeting  was  changed,  and,  to  some  extent, 
the  character  of  the  club.  I  am  not  sure  when  it 
was  that  Black  edited  for  a  short  time  the  Examiner, 
but  I  think  it  was  during  the  period  between  his  leav- 
ing the  Star  and  his  entry  upon  work  on  the  Daily 
Neivs  as  assistant  editor  under  Mr.  Frank  Hill,  in 
1870.  The  Examiner,  which  had  been  going  down 
hill  from  the  day  that  it  lost  the  vigorous  guidance 
of  Albany  Fonblanque,  had  absorbed  another  un- 
successful weekly  paper  —  the  London  Review,  for 
some  time  edited  by  Black's  friend  and  mine,  Will- 
iam Barry.  Mr.  McCullagh  Torrens,  M.P.,  was 
for  a  while  the  proprietor,  and  I  am  nearly  certain 
that  it  was  under  him  that  Black  undertook  the 

58 


THE    WHITEFRIARS    CLUB 

editorship — a  hopeless  and  heart-breaking  task  in 
the  case  of  such  a  venture." 

The  Whitefriars  Club  is  an  institution  that  still 
exists,  though  in  a  somewhat  altered  form.  In 
Black's  day  it  was  a  meeting-place  for  young  jour- 
nalists and  men  of  letters  engaged  upon  the  news- 
papers published  in  Fleet  Street  and  its  neighbor- 
hood. Here  Black  met  many  journalistic  comrades, 
including  Mr.  Wharton  Simpson,  whose  daughter 
he  subsequently  married.  The  club  dined  together 
once  a  week  in  Radley's  Hotel,  a  place  that  has  long 
since  disappeared.  The  atmosphere  of  the  place 
may  be  described  as  that  of  a  respectable  Bohemia, 
and  Black's  membership  of  the  club  was  the  closest 
approach  he  ever  made  to  Bohemianism.  His  friend 
Mr.  William  Senior,  the  editor  of  the  Field,  in  re- 
calling some  memories  of  the  old  days  of  the  club, 
gives  one  or  two  reminiscences  of  Black. 

"In  the  early  seventies  I  can  recall,  as  among 
the  notable  figures  around  the  weekly  dinner-table, 
that  of  William  Black,  then  assistant  editor  and 
art  critic  on  the  Daily  Neivs.  He  was  not  a  man  of 
imposing  stature,  but  he  had  a  friend  from  whom  he 
was  seldom  separated,  in  the  person  of  a  much  smaller 
man — William  Barry,  a  brilliant  Irishman.  Barry 
was  a  genial  and  duodecimal  edition  of  fashionable 
humanity,  whom  we  used  to  chaff  on  the  conquests 
he  was  supposed  to  make  among  the  duchesses  and 
countesses  of  society.  I  remember  going  into  the 
club  at  Radley's  one  afternoon  to  find  Barry  and 
Black  radiantly  discussing  a  modest  pint  of  cham- 
pagne.    This  was  such  an  unusual  occurrence  for 

59 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

an  afternoon  that  I  bluntly  expressed  my  astonish- 
ment, and  there  and  then  received  a  humorous  ac- 
count of  how  the  novelist  had  made  his  first  good 
bargain  with  the  firm  of  Macmillan.  ...  It  was  only 
in  the  natural  order  of  things  that  after  dinner  there 
should  be  gaps  in  the  ranks,  for  Black  and  others 
had  their  duty  to  do  in  Fleet  Street;  but  back  they 
would  come  again  when  the  work  was  done.  The 
smartest  thing  I  ever  saw  performed  in  journalism 
was  by  Black  on  one  of  our  Friday  nights.  He  had 
been  writing  a  special  article  upon  some  art  sub- 
ject that  he  supposed  relieved  him  from  the  leader 
columns  that  night;  but  during  dinner  intelligence 
was  brought  him  of  some  highly  important  state 
paper  just  arrived  from  Russia.  He  finished  his 
dinner,  and  there  was  the  usual  interchange  of  cigars 
between  him,  his  future  father-in-law,  Wharton 
Simpson,  and  others;  and  Black  disappeared  for 
the  space  of  an  hour  and  a  quarter.  He  had  in  the 
interval  written  a  leading  article  on  the  relations 
between  Russia  and  England  that  was  generally 
quoted  next  day,  and  acknowledged  to  be  the  best 
of  the  leading  articles  upon  the  subject."  Black's 
quickness  in  composition,  to  which  Mr.  Senior  refers, 
was  one  of  his  chief  chracteristics  as  a  journalist. 
He  allowed  himself,  as  he  often  told  me,  an  hour 
for  a  leading  article,  a  column  in  length,  and,  so  far 
as  literary  composition  was  concerned,  there  was 
no  slovenliness  in  what  he  wrote.  But  even  though 
he  could  write  faster  than  most  men,  he  always 
spoke  with  admiring  envy  of  the  superior  quick- 
ness of  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy,  who    never    exceed- 

60 


"LOVE    OR    MARRIAGE" 

ed  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  writing  his  col- 
umn. 

On  the  special  occasion  mentioned  by  Mr.  Senior, 
something  more  than  mere  quickness  in  writing 
was  needed.  The  despatch  from  Russia  was  in 
French,  and  was  written  on  telegraphic  "flimsy" 
in  almost  undecipherable  characters.  Black  had 
to  translate  the  document  as  well  as  comment  upon 
it,  and  he  used  to  say,  in  after  days,  that  he  began 
at  the  end,  as  he  felt  sure  that  he  would  find  the 
pith  of  the  despatch  there,  and  wrote  portions  of  his 
leader  in  the  intervals  between  bits  of  translation. 
It  was  really  a  notable  achievement,  and  showed 
that  he  was,  in  some  respects  at  least,  a  journalist 
of  first-class  ability. 

In  1868  Black's  novel  of  Love  or  Marriage  was 
published.  It  was  not,  as  he  himself  plaintively 
asserted  when  put  upon  his  defence,  an  immoral 
book;  but  it  was  unconventional  and  distinctly 
immature.  Its  burden  was  the  claim  of  a  man  to 
enter  into  marriage  relations  with  a  woman  whom 
he  loved  without  going  through  any  marriage  cere- 
mony. In  after-life  he  disliked  to  speak  of  it  as 
much  as  he  disliked  any  reference  to  James  Merle. 
But  there  were  good  things  in  the  book;  some,  in- 
deed, that  were  very  good,  and  though  it  failed  to 
achieve  success,  and  was  roughly  handled  by  some 
of  the  critics,  it  gave  his  friends  reason  to  believe 
that  he  had  in  him  the  making  of  a  genuine  writer 
of  romance.  At  all  events,  it  inspired  Black  him- 
self with  the  determination  to  devote  himself  to  the 
writing  of  fiction  as  a  career.     Journalism  was  the 

61 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

staff  upon  which  he  must  of  necessity  lean  in  earn- 
ing his  daily  bread;  but  it  was  to  fiction  that  he 
turned,  not  so  much  in  the  hope  of  winning  fame 
or  fortune  as  because,  in  dealing  with  the  imaginary 
men  and  women  of  his  own  creation,  he  found  the 
means  of  giving  utterance  to  all  that  was  best  within 
him. 

Love  or  Marriage  contained  some  scenes  drawn 
from  its  writer's  experiences  as  a  special  correspond- 
ent in  the  war  of  1866.  He  had  already  learned 
the  value  of  truth  in  fiction,  and  knew  how  greatly 
the  effect  of  flights  of  the  imagination  is  heightened 
when  they  are  set  against  a  background  of  reality. 
All  through  his  writing  days,  when  he  described 
any  natural  scenery  he  described  only  what  he 
saw.  One  result  of  this  was  the  fidelity  of  his  later 
books  as  pictures  of  the  country  in  which  the  scene 
of  each  particular  story  was  laid.  This  feature 
characterized  Love  or  Marriage,  and  gave  the  story 
a  certain  value  in  spite  of  its  obvious  crudeness. 

In  1869  he  produced  In  Silk  Attire,  in  which  his 
special  gifts  were  displayed  more  fully  than  they  had 
been  in  either  of  his  earlier  works.  In  Silk  Attire, 
though  it  did  not  gain  the  success  which  it  deserved, 
won  for  him  a  larger  circle  of  admirers  than  he  had 
hitherto  commanded.  If  he  did  not  make  money 
by  the  book,  he  at  least  gained  friends,  and  people 
began  to  realize  that  he  possessed  in  a  singular 
degree  the  power  of  making  the  women  of  his  story 
charming  as  well  as  natural.  Some  of  his  readers, 
indeed,  felt  that  the  heroine  of  In  Silk  Attire  was 
one  of  the  sweetest  women  who  had  yet  appeared  in 

62 


"  IN  SILK    ATTIRE  " 

modern  English  fiction;  but  the  reviewers  were  un- 
sympathetic, and  Black's  fame  as  a  novelist,  though 
it  was  now  steadily  growing,  was  still  limited  to  a 
circle  at  once  small  and  select.  If  the  critics  thought 
that  the  new  artist,  who  was  striving  to  paint 
the  characters  of  the  women  of  his  time  in  a  way  in 
which  they  had  never  been  painted  before,  was  a  man 
who  could  be  crushed  by  their  sneers,  they  were 
mightily  mistaken.  There  was  a  dogged  persever- 
ance and  determination  about  the  young  novelist 
which  enabled  him  to  rise  superior  to  their  attacks. 
He  had  been  conscious  of  the  defects  which  marked 
both  James  Merle  and  Love  or  Marriage,  and  he  had, 
in  consequence,  been  fully  prepared  for  the  unfavor- 
able verdict  of  the  critics.  In  Silk  Attire  was  a  work 
of  different  calibre — a  work  that  struck  a  different 
note  from  any  that  had  been  sounded  for  many  a 
day  in  English  fiction.  Black  was  no  more  insen- 
sible to  the  merits  of  this  story  than  he  had  been  to 
the  faults  of  its  predecessors.  He  did  not  for  a  mo- 
ment allow  himself  to  be  chagrined  by  its  failure  to 
achieve  the  success  it  deserved.  Indeed,  he  had 
begun  to  write  Kilmeny  before  In  Silk  Attire  was 
published.  He  had  found  his  vocation,  and  not  all 
the  lions  of  criticism  that  glowered  in  his  path  could 
turn  him  from  it.  He  had,  of  course,  the  sweets 
along  with  the  bitters  of  his  position.  Nothing  is 
more  grateful  to  the  young  author  who  has  not  yet 
tasted  the  intoxicating  delights  of  fame  than  the 
knowledge  that  his  work  has  made  for  him  friends 
and  won  for  him  admiration,  though  the  circle  of 
friends    and    admirers    may    still    be    small.     The 

63 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

author  of  In  Silk  Attire  was  recognized  by  those 
who  knew  him  as  one  of  the  rising  novelists  of  the 
day,  and  he  went  on  his  way  with  unfaltering  cour- 
age. 

Nor  did  Black  lack  encouragement  of  a  peculiar- 
ly gratifying  kind  even  in  this  early  and  unsuc- 
cessful venture  of  his.  Mr.  Williams,  senior,  whose 
claim  to  the  possession  of  unusual  literary  insight 
had  been  proved  beyond  dispute  by  his  recognition 
of  Charlotte  Bronte,  favored  him  with  the  following 
generous  appreciation  of  his  work : 

Twickenham, 
March  6,  1869. 
MY  DEAR  Mr.  BLACK,— I  must  thank  you  for  the  great 
pleasure  your  new  novel  gave  me,  and  congratulate  you 
on  the  success  you  have  made :  indeed,  I  think  you  have 
taken  a  high  position  as  a  novelist,  and  one  which  you 
may  maintain,  if  not  improve,  by  the  qualities  you  show 
in  this  story.  These  seem  to  me  to  be  the  clear,  manly 
style,  free,  yet  finished ;  the  vivid  descriptions,  picturesque 
and  truthful  in  their  characteristic  brevity;  especially 
the  scenes  in  the  Black  Forest,  which  show  a  poetic  ap- 
preciation of  the  beauties  of  nature  and  artistic  skill  in 
depicting  them.  In  other  scenes — those  of  stage-life — the 
same  power  of  realizing  them  by  means  of  their  salient 
characteristics  is  shown,  and  the  absence  of  all  that  is 
coarse  and  prurient  does  not  prevent  the  picture  being 
complete  and  suggestive.  The  plot  I  put  aside :  it  is  only 
serviceable  to  bring  out  the  characters  in  critical  situations, 
though  I  could  wish  it  had  been  less  improbable. ,  But 
the  characters  are  so  human  and  lifelike,  and  talk  so  nat- 
urally and  not  too  much,  that,  combined  with  the  boldness 
of  their  position  and  purity  and  delicacy  of  the  love  scenes, 

64 


AN     APPRECIATION 

they  evidence  to  me  dramatic  power  and  skill  of  no  common 
kind.  The  incidents  appear  actual,  and  the  touching 
tenderness  and  simple  pathos  of  some  of  the  scenes,  and 
the  brightness  and  beauty  and  nobleness  of  others,  all 
alike  witness  the  healthy,  vigorous  tone  of  mind  of  the 
writer  and  produce  the  charm  of  the  book.  I  only  speak 
in  general  terms,  being  invalidish,  and  my  brain  as  flaccid 
as  my  hand  is  shaky.  Excuse  this  scrawl,  and  believe 
me,  with  best  wishes  for  your  further  success, 

Yours  very  truly, 

W.  S.  Williams. 

This  was  praise,  indeed,  and  it  gave  Black  com- 
fort and  courage.  The  striking  truth  of  this  appre- 
ciation is  clear  to  everybody  now.  Mr.  Williams, 
with  the  eye  of  the  true  critic,  saw  in  the  immature 
production  he  was  called  upon  to  criticise  the  germ 
of  the  special  qualities  which  distinguished  the  later 
and  more  finished  works  of  the  same  pen.  Encour- 
aged by  such  recognition  as  this,  Black  set  himself 
the  task  of  writing  at  least  one  novel  a  year. 

To  Air.  Whyte. 

5  Lower  Terrace, 
Torquay. 

(1870). 
MY  DEAR  WHYTE —You  talk  to  me  of  Scotland— to 
me,  who  am  at  Torquay,  in  the  heart  of  Devon,  opposite 
the  bluest  bay  in  the  world,  with  cliffs  of  rock  over  three 
hundred  feet  high  running  out  into  the  sea— not  into  a 
brackish  canal,  as  the  mountains  of  Gourock  do.  How- 
ever, I  forgive  you,  as  Hennie  Watson  used  to  say.  I  saw 
no  announcement  like  that  you  speak  of;  but  as  I  had 
thought  of  calling  the  book  The  Wild  Flower  of  Devon, 
the  publishers  may  have  indiscreetly  let  that  drop.     I  am 

65 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

glad  you  find  some  little  interest  in  the  first  instalment. 
I  was  afraid  it  was  rather  dull,  being  wholly  introductory. 
Kilmeny  I  know  you  will  like,  as  it  is  almost  exclusively 
devoted  to  artist  life  at  home  and  abroad.  I  wish  I  had 
a  copy  here  ;  I  would  send  it  to  you.  If  I  remember  rightly, 
I  have  only  one  copy  at  home.  I  hope  to  see  you  this  sum- 
mer or  autumn.  I  have  an  invitation  to  go  shooting  in 
the  autumn,  but  may  have  to  go  sooner  to  see  some  places 
for  a  Scotch  story  which  I  purpose  writing  by-and-by. 
I  hope  you  and  yours  are  well.  Why  don't  you  bring  them 
all  down  to  the  South  for  a  month,  instead  of  going  to 
Gourock?  If  I  could  only  tell  you  half  the  loveliness  of 
this  place,  you  would  be  off  here  at  once ;  but  in  heaven, 
where  I  am  at  present,  one  ought  not  to  talk  prose.  A 
military  friend  of  mine  describes  the  occupation  of  an  angel 
as  "  sitting  on  a  damp  cloud  and  playing  a  harp."  I 
haven't  one  by  me  at  present.     Did  you  see  the  Westminster 

Review  on  Kilmeny? 

Faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 

P.S. — I  wish  you  would  tell  me  if  you  ever  heard  of 
any  character  in  any  Scotch  story  going  under  the  sob- 
riquet of  "The  Whaup." 

It  is  the  postscript  to  this  letter  that  is  most  inter- 
esting. Kilmeny,  which  deals  chiefly,  as  Black 
said,  with  artistic  life,  and  the  scenery  of  which  is 
laid  in  London,  Brighton,  and  Buckinghamshire, 
had  just  been  published.  It  had  increased  the  cir- 
cle of  his  readers  and  admirers,  and  the  distinct 
charm  which  pervades  its  pages  had  even  touched 
the  hearts  of  the  critics — with  one  or  two  notable 
exceptions.  Men  began  to  recognize  the  fact  that 
the  new  writer  had  a  gift  of  his  own,  and  that  he 

66 


STEADY    ADVANCE    IN    JOURNALISM 

could  describe  natural  scenery  and  the  natures  of 
women  with  a  skill  and  delicacy  that  made  them 
vivid  and  real  to  the  reader.  His  success,  partial 
though  it  was,  nerved  him  to  a  fresh  effort,  and  he 
was  already  contemplating  the  writing  of  the  ro- 
mance in  which  The  Whaup  is  one  of  the  cen- 
tral figures — a  romance  which  was  to  place  him  at 
one  bound  among  the  most  popular  novelists  of  his 
time. 

Romance  writing  had  not,  however,  led  him  to 
neglect  his  every-day  work  as  a  journalist.  During 
these  years,  from  1866  to  1870,  he  had  been  work- 
ing hard  in  his  profession;  and  though  he  never 
rose  to  a  front  place  in  it,  he  had  made  a  steady 
advance  in  the  esteem  of  his  fellow-journalists,  and 
had  secured  a  substantial  income  as  the  result  of  his 
industry.  It  may,  perhaps,  be  said  here,  as  some- 
where it  ought  to  be  said,  that  Black  never  had  to 
pass  through  any  period  of  severe  and  sordid  strug- 
gle as  a  man  of  letters.  From  the  time  when,  still 
a  mere  boy,  he  threw  up  his  modest  post  in  the  count- 
ing-house in  Birchin  Lane,  and  trusted  wholly  to  his 
pen  for  a  livelihood,  he  never  failed  to  make  a  suffi- 
cient income.  Keenly  susceptible  to  those  pleasures 
and  luxuries  which  only  the  wealthy  can  afford,  he 
was  quite  content,  while  his  means  were  modest,  to 
live  frugally.  The  thought  of  debt  was  hateful  to 
him,  and  he  always  lived  within  his  means.  But 
with  each  succeeding  year  his  means  grew  larger, 
and  he  found  himself  taking  rank  among  the  most 
prosperous  journalists  of  the  day.  In  1870  his  po- 
sition  in   the   newspaper   world   was   substantially 

67 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

improved  by  his  acceptance  of  an  important  post 
on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Daily  News.  Mr.  Frank 
Hill  was  the  editor  of  the  Daily  News  in  those  days, 
and  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir  John)  Robinson  the  man- 
ager. Political  writing  was  no  more  to  Black's  taste 
than  it  had  been  at  any  previous  period  in  his  ca- 
reer, but  his  great  capability  as  a  writer,  and  the 
quickness  of  application  which  he  had  acquired  as 
a  journalist,  enabled  him  to  fulfil  his  duties  as  as- 
sistant editor  and  leader-writer  on  a  great  morning 
paper  with  sufficient  credit  to  himself.  His  heart, 
however,  was  in  other  work.  It  was  a  good  thing 
for  him  that  the  Daily  News  in  those  days  paid  more 
attention  to  literature  and  art  than  any  other  morn- 
ing paper,  and  he  delighted  in  the  opportunity  he 
now  had  of  expressing  his  views  upon  these  sub- 
jects in  the  columns  of  the  great  Liberal  journal. 
That  which  he  did  not  like — in  fact,  frankly  de- 
tested—  was  the  responsible  work  that  fell  upon 
him  as  assistant  editor.  He  felt  the  burden  of  that 
work  most  heavily  when  the  editor  was  absent,  and 
he  had  to  take  his  place  at  the  helm.  It  was  there 
that  his  own  weakness  as  a  politician — a  weakness 
due  exclusively  to  his  deficient  interest  in  political 
affairs  and  controversies — was  most  apparent. 

As  the  years  passed,  his  compulsory  connection 
with  this  side  of  journalism  became  more  and  more 
irksome  to  him;  and  when  the  day  came  for  him  to 
escape  from  the  toil  of  political  writing  he  was  as 
unaffectedly  happy  as  a  boy  released  from  school. 

At  the  outset,  however,  he  hailed  his  connection 
with  the  Daily  News  with  pleasure.     It  gave  him 

68 


WILLIAM    BARRY 

at  once  a  position  of  some  importance  on  the  press, 
while  it  liberated  him  from  the  necessity  of  miscel- 
laneous writing,  and  thus  set  him  free  to  devote 
himself  more  fully  than  had  been  possible  before 
to  his  calling  as  a  novelist.  The  engagement  on 
the  Daily  News  at  the  same  time  brought  him  into 
contact  with  new  circles,  and  enabled  him  to  form 
new  friendships.  One  friend  of  those  days  has  al- 
ready been  mentioned  by  Mr.  Wilson,  and  he  must 
not  be  passed  unnoticed,  for  he  filled  for  several 
years  a  large  part  in  Black's  life.  This  was  Will- 
iam Barry,  a  young  Irish  journalist,  who  served 
long  afterwards  as  the  model  for  Willie  Fitzgerald 
in  Shandon  Bells. 

To  the  day  of  Black's  death  a  large  photograph 
of  Barry  hung  above  his  writing-table  in  his  own 
room  at  Brighton.  His  friends  were  sometimes 
puzzled  to  account  for  the  warmth  of  his  regard  for 
certain  persons ;  but  no  one  who  knew  William  Barry 
could  be  surprised  by  Black's  affection  for  him. 
He  had  the  wit  and  the  sympathy  characteristic 
of  the  Celtic  temperament,  while  he  was  happily 
free  from  the  strain  of  melancholy  which  some- 
times accompanies  that  temperament.  He  had  a 
touch  of  genius.  He  was  an  enthusiastic  student 
of  nature,  and  he  was  a  most  loyal  friend.  It  was 
not  a  bad  thing  for  Black  that  at  the  most  critical 
period  of  his  career,  when  he  was  passing  from  the 
cold  shade  of  obscurity  into  the  full  blaze  of  a  fame 
and  popularity  that  but  few  writers  are  permitted 
to  attain,  he  should  have  had  the  friendship  and 
companionship  of  such  a  man  as  Barry.     The  sim- 

69 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

plicity  of  character  and  the  love  of  harmless  fun 
which  distinguished  Barry  made  him  an  admirable 
companion  for  a  man  who  suddenly  found  his  feet 
treading  the  slippery  path  of  unaccustomed  fame. 
The  reader  will  see  by-and-by  in  what  spirit  Black 
accepted  the  astounding  popularity  which  in  the 
end  burst  upon  him  in  so  startling  a  fashion.  I 
think  that  his  friend  Barry  helped  him  not  a  little 
at  a  time  when  it  would  have  been  easy  for  a  man  to 
fall  a  victim  to  the  intoxication  of  a  bewildering 
success.  If  Barry  helped  Black  in  those  days, 
the  latter  nobly  repaid  the  debt  a  few  years  later, 
when  he  watched  over  Barry  on  his  death-bed  like  a 
brother,  and  ministered  to  him  to  the  end. 

Mr.  Wilson,  speaking  of  the  Daily  News  con- 
nection, says :  "  In  1870  Mr.  Hill  became  editor  of 
the  Daily  News,  and  Black  almost  immediately 
joined  him  as  assistant  editor.  His  friend  Barry 
at  the  same  time  became  a  frequent  contributor  to 
the  same  paper  on  subjects  connected  with  sport 
and  natural  history.  I  met  them  often  together 
in  those  days,  in  clubs  and  elsewhere,  but  notably 
at  Mr.  Justin  McCarthy's,  who  had  then  returned 
from  his  first  visit  to  the  United  States,  and  had 
revived  his  pleasant  little  Saturday  evening  supper- 
parties  at  rooms  in  Bedford  Place.  There  we  used 
to  gather  during  the  exciting  summer  which  was 
marked  by  the  outbreak  of  the  Franco  -  German 
war.  Among  those  whom  we  used  to  meet  most 
frequently  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kroeker,  the  latter 
a  daughter  of  Ferdinand  Freiligrath,  a  poet  for 
whom  McCarthy,  as  well  as  Black  and  I,  had  a  warm 

70 


FAME  AS    A    WRITER    ESTABLISHED 

admiration.  We  were  all,  or  nearly  all,  ardent  in 
the  German  cause.  I  remember  that  Black  joined 
enthusiastically  in  singing  the  '  Wacht  am  Rhein ' 
on  the  night  when  we  got  news  of  the  first  French 
defeats  on  the  frontier.  I  knew  nothing  directly 
of  Black's  work  on  the  Daily  News,  being  occupied 
in  a  different  region  of  journalism;  but,  like  all  his 
friends,  I  noticed  with  amazement  that  his  literary 
production  was  most  rapid  and  brilliant  while  the 
nightly  burden  of  the  newspaper  rested  upon  him." 

Kilmeny,  as  has  been  told,  won  many  friends 
for  Black  among  the  reading  public,  and  especially 
among  men  of  letters.  His  next  effort  was  not  so 
happy.  This  was  The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane, 
in  which  he  utilized  some  of  his  early  experiences 
in  the  house  of  Maitland,  Ewing  &  Company. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  uncongeniality  of  those  experi- 
ences that  made  the  record  of  them  in  this  novel 
less  sympathetic  and  convincing  than  either  of  his 
previous  efforts  had  been.  At  all  events,  the  public 
did  not  care  for  The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane,  and 
even  kindly  critics  thought  that  it  showed  a  falling 
off  from  In  Silk  Attire  and  Kilmeny. 

Black  himself,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  shared 
the  public  view  of  this  performance.  It  was  one 
of  the  books  from  his  pen  about  which  he  never 
allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  conversation,  and 
during  his  lifetime  it  was  never  republished.  Yet 
successful  or  the  reverse,  he  went  straight  on  to 
his  appointed  end.  He  had  scarcely  completed  the 
writing  of  The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane  than  he 
began  the  book  which  was  to  gain  for  him  a  world- 

7i 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

wide  reputation  and  establish  his  position  as  a  writer 
high  above  the  reach  of  unfair  criticism. 

The  writing  and  publication  of  A  Daughter  of 
Heth  marked  the  turning-point  in  his  career  as  a 
novelist,  and  I  must  leave  this  part  of  the  story  to  a 
new  chapter.  Before  I  close  the  present  page  in 
the  history  of  Black's  life  in  London,  one  tragical 
incident  must  be  recorded.  This  is  the  death  of 
his  son  Martin,  to  which  I  have  already  alluded. 
The  boy  passed  away  on  the  29th  of  March,  1871. 
It  was  another  terrible  blow  for  the  father.  The 
little  memorial  card  which  was  sent  to  Black's  friends 
to  record  the  close  of  the  brief  life  says  simply  that 
the  child  "  made  many  friends  by  reason  of  his  bright 
looks,  his  frank  and  winning  ways,  and  gentle  dis- 
position." Black  bore  his  sorrow  in  a  stony  silence, 
infinitely  more  pathetic  than  any  loud  outburst  of 
grief  would  have  been.  He  went  about  his  usual 
work,  reserved,  impassive;  he  spoke  to  no  one  of 
his  pain,  and  his  friends  did  not  venture  to  allude  to 
it.  But  those  who  were  closest  to  him  then  knew 
how  deep  his  suffering  was,  and  understood  and  re- 
spected his  characteristic  determination  to  keep  it 
locked  within  his  own  breast. 

Some  seven  years  had  now  elapsed  since  the  young 
Scotsman  came  up  from  Glasgow  to  try  his  fortunes 
in  London.  They  had  been  years,  as  the  reader 
has  seen,  of  varied  experiences.  He  had  married 
and  he  had  become  a  widower ;  he  had  seen  his  house, 
even  in  the  loneliness  of  his  great  bereavement, 
brightened  by  the  presence  of  the  boy  whom  he 
loved  devotedly,  and  he  had  found  himself  left  in  it 

72 


SEVEN    YEARS    OF    LONDON 

childless.  But  besides  these  personal  experiences 
which  made  his  early  years  in  London  forever  mem- 
orable, he  had  behind  him  the  record  of  seven  years 
of  steady  work,  as  full  in  its  character  and  as  ardu- 
ous as  any  to  which  a  young  man  has  ever  devoted 
himself.  He  had  been  merchant's  clerk,  journalist, 
essayist,  editor,  novelist,  and  in  each  successive 
stage  he  had  done  his  best,  throwing  into  the  work 
of  the  day,  even  when  it  was  least  congenial  to  his 
tastes  and  temperament,  all  the  stubborn  energy 
which  was  characteristic  of  one  side  of  his  nature. 
And  if  he  had  not  yet  achieved  any  brilliant  suc- 
cess, his  seven  years  of  work  had  been  seven  years 
of  steady,  continuous  progress.  He  had  gathered 
about  him  friends  of  whom  he  had  every  reason  to 
be  proud ;  he  had  made  within  certain  limits  an  hon- 
orable name  for  himself  in  journalism  and  in  letters. 
No  man  could  have  had  less  reason  to  regard  his 
career  so  far  with  feelings  of  shame  or  regret.  And 
he  was  still  young,  with  an  undiminished  confidence 
in  his  own  powers,  and  already  preparing  for  a  fresh 
attempt  to  gain  the  ear  of  the  British  public. 

That  he  had  changed  much  during  those  sev- 
en years  all  his  friends  saw.  It  would  have  been 
strange,  indeed,  if  the  great  sorrows  of  life  of  which 
he  had  partaken  so  freely  had  not  left  their  perma- 
nent mark  upon  him.  He  was  no  longer  the  un- 
sophisticated youth  who  had  entered  the  counting- 
house  in  Birchin  Lane  seven  years  before.  He  had 
gained  enormousl}7  in  his  knowledge  of  life  and  of 
the  world.  His  friends  had  seen  him  develop  from 
the  boy  into  the  man,  wise  from  a  varied  experience 

73 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

of  life.  They  had  seen,  too,  how  quickly  he  had 
adapted  himself  to  his  new  environment.  Glasgow 
lay  far  behind  him;  he  had  taken  his  place  in  the 
larger  social  world  of  London.  The  wonderfully 
observant  eye,  which  was  so  quick  to  note  every 
new  feature  that  presented  itself,  had  served  him 
in  his  dress,  his  home,  his  daily  surroundings.  He 
had  become  to  all  outward  appearance  the  polished 
man  of  the  world,  breathing  with  ease  an  atmos- 
phere that  differed  widely  from  that  of  his  simple, 
early  home.  But  whatever  else  had  changed  in 
those  seven  years  of  toil  in  London,  his  heart  was 
what  it  had  ever  been,  his  nature  was  still  pure  and 
chivalrous,  and  his  ambition,  like  his  temperament, 
had  undergone  no  transformation.  He  had  meas- 
ured himself  with  the  men  and  women  of  the  great 
world,  who  had  seemed  to  him  so  formidable  when 
seen  afar  off — the  journalists,  and  poets,  and  wits, 
and  bright  particular  stars  of  the  literary  circles  of 
the  English  capital ;  and  he  had  found  that  he  could 
hold  his  own  even  with  the  best  of  them.  Above  all, 
he  had  discovered  that  beyond  all  dispute  he  had  the 
gift  of  winning  the  sympathy  of  those  to  whom  he 
appealed  with  his  pen.  He  had  touched  the  hearts 
of  men  and  women,  and  made  them  throb  respon- 
sive to  his  own.  It  was  still  the  day  of  small  things 
with  him ;  but  he  had  been  tested,  and  had  not  been 
found  wanting.  It  was  with  a  firmer  step  and  an 
assured  confidence  in  his  own  capacity  that  he  went 
forward  upon  the  next  stage  of  his  journey. 


CHAPTER  III 

"A  DAUGHTER  OF  HETH" 

The  Writing  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth— Coquette— The  Real 
Whaup — Letters  to  Mrs.  Kroeker — The  Popular  Verdict — A 
Dazzling  Success — Black  in  Society — The  Strange  Advent- 
ures of  a  Phaeton — The  Real  Trip — Friendship  with  Artists 
— At  Camberwell  Grove — A  House-warming — Engagement 
to  Miss  Simpson — Dedication  of  The  Phaeton — Visit  to  the 
Hebrides — A  Curious  Episode — Mrs.  Kroeker's  Reminiscences 
— A  Valentine — A  Princess  of  Thule — Death  of  William  Barry. 

IN  a  letter  to  Mr.  Whyte,  which  I  have  printed  in 
the  last  chapter,  Black  mentioned  that  he  was 
going  to  see  some  places  in  Scotland  for  a  story  that 
he  was  about  to  write.  The  places  in  question  were 
in  Ayrshire,  Saltcoats  being  the  particular  spot  that 
he  visited;  and  the  story  which  he  contemplated 
writing  was  A  Daughter  of  Heth.  All  Black's  ad- 
mirers know  the  leading  feature  of  this  delightful 
tale:  the  presence  of  a  French  girl,  brought  up  to 
French  views  of  life,  in  a  Scottish  household  of  the 
typical  kind.  No  situation  could  have  been  more 
happily  conceived  than  this  for  the  purpose  of  giv- 
ing Black's  peculiar  talents  full  play.  Up  to  this 
point  his  strength,  so  far  as  it  was  displayed  in  his 
stories,  had  been  found  in  his  admirable  descrip- 
tions of  scenery,  the  clear  and  natural  talk  which 
he  put  into  the  mouths  of  his  characters,  and,  above 

75 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

all,  the  sympathetic  insight  with  which  he  painted 
the  portraits  of  his  women.  His  weakness  had  dis- 
played itself  in  his  plots,  which,  as  Mr.  Williams 
pointed  out  in  the  letter  quoted  on  a  previous  page, 
were  altogether  secondary  to  his  characters  and 
descriptions.  Many  of  his  friends  believed  that  if 
he  could  but  invent  a  good  plot  he  would  secure 
at  once  the  place  which  he  ought  to  hold  among 
the  novelists  of  the  day.  But  Black  had  a  hatred 
of  violent  dramatic  incidents,  which  clung  to  him 
throughout  his  life.  It  was  life  as  he  saw  it  that 
he  wished  to  depict,  not  the  life  of  melodramatic  ad- 
venture dear  to  so  many  writers  of  fiction.  "  People 
are  not  always  committing  forgery,  or  bigamy,  or 
running  away  with  other  men's  wives,  or  being 
falsely  accused  of  murder.  I  do  not  know  that  I 
ever  met  any  one  who  had  passed  through  any  one 
of  these  experiences,  and  I  would  rather  write  about 
men  and  women  like  those  whom  I  have  actually 
known  than  about  imaginary  monsters  I  have  never 
seen."  Such  was  the  view  of  his  art  that  he  once 
expressed  to  me,  and  it  was  in  strict  accordance  with 
this  view  that,  after  the  false  start  of  Love  or  Mar- 
riage, he  pursued  his  course  as  a  novelist.  But  if 
novels  are  to  interest  the  average  reader,  it  is  neces- 
sary that  they  should  deal  with  incidents  and  situ- 
ations that  attract — in  part,  at  least — by  reason  of 
their  novelty.  The  central  situation  in  A  Daughter 
of  Heth  was  of  this  character,  and  it  enabled  Black 
to  put  forth  all  his  strength.  Various  accounts  have 
been  given  of  the  way  in  which  the  incident  of  Co- 
quette's  presence   in   a   Scottish   minister's   house- 

76 


COQUETTE 

hold  first  suggested  itself  to  Black.  It  is  not  im- 
probable that  the  theme  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  may- 
have  occurred  to  him  from  an  incident  which  really 
happened  about  this  time — the  visit  of  a  young  lady, 
Irish  by  birth,  but  a  resident  in  Paris,  to  some  friends 
in  Scotland.  This  young  lady  was  a  friend  of 
Black's,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  told  him  of 
some  of  the  amusing  incongruities  between  herself, 
fresh  from  Paris  and  its  ways  of  living,  and  the 
unsophisticated  Scottish  household  in  which  she 
was  temporarily  resident.  This  incident,  I  say,  may 
have  been  the  germ  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  but  in 
any  case  the  treatment  of  the  subject  was  Black's 
and  Black's  alone,  while  Coquette  was  absolutely 
a  creature  of  his  own  imagination.  Here  and  there, 
it  is  true,  some  trait  in  her  character  may  have  been 
drawn  from  some  woman  whom  he  had  actually 
met;  for  in  his  silent  way  he  was  always  studying 
the  people  whom  he  encountered  in  real  life,  and 
making  mental  notes  of  anything  about  them  that 
struck  him  as  being  distinctive  or  characteristic. 
But  no  one  can  claim  to  have  served  as  a  model  for 
Coquette.  His  mother  did,  indeed,  see  in  her  some- 
thing of  the  young  wife  who  had  been  taken  from 
him  after  so  brief  an  experience  of  domestic  happi- 
ness, and  it  may  be  regarded  as  certain  that  Co- 
quette's death  was  a  reflection  of  that  other  death 
at  Hounslow  which  had  brought  desolation  into  his 
first  home.  But  those  who  knew  Black's  first  wife 
declare  emphatically  that,  although  graceful  and 
gentle,  there  was  nothing  about  her  of  the  special 
charm  that  has  endeared  Coquette  to  a  vast  multi- 

77 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

tude  of  readers  in  all  quarters  of  the  world.  She 
was  the  child  of  Black's  brain,  and  it  is  only  by  see- 
ing the  offspring  of  that  brain  that  one  can  form  an 
adequate  estimate  of  its  quality.  Perhaps  I  may 
go  further.  Coquette  is  no  mere  effort  of  a  strong 
intellect  striving  to  impress  the  world  with  a  new 
and  brilliant  creation.  Love,  as  well  as  intellect, 
inspired  that  delightful  portrait  of  innocence,  sim- 
plicity, and  tenderness.  Coquette  was  as  much  the 
child  of  Black's  heart  as  of  his  brain. 

As  for  the  other  characters  in  the  story,  they  be- 
long mainly  to  the  earlier  period  of  Black's  own 
career.  He  turned  his  back  upon  the  London  of 
commerce  and  of  Bohemia,  forgot  the  literary  and 
artistic  circles  in  which  he  moved  from  day  to  day, 
and  went  back  to  the  simpler  scenes  and  less  com- 
plicated personalities  of  his  youth.  The  setting  of 
the  story,  as  we  have  seen,  was  sketched  from  nature. 
Black's  father  and  mother  are  in  part  portrayed  in 
the  minister  and  the  old  house-keeper,  while  I  have 
a  shrewd  suspicion  that  The  Whaup  was  none  other 
than  Black  himself.  Indeed,  he  did  not  deny  it 
when  I  taxed  him  with  it.  The  story  of  how  I  came 
to  do  so  may  amuse  my  readers.  Turning  over  a 
photographic  album  in  his  house  one  day,  I  found 
an  early  portrait  of  Black  in  characteristic  Scotch 
costume  —  cape,  cap,  leggings,  baggy  breeches. 
"This  your  portrait,  Black?"  I  exclaimed.  "Why, 
then  you  must  be  The  Whaup!"  He  smiled  a  little 
grimly,  but  did  not  dissent  from  my  remark;  and  a 
little  later  on  he  admitted  that  the  incident  told  in 
the  story,  in  which  the  masterful  Whaup  holds  his 

78 


ABSORBED    IN    HIS     WORK 

brother  head  downward  from  the  bridge,  and  keeps 
him  in  that  uncomfortable  attitude  until,  at  the 
peril  of  his  soul,  he  uses  a  wicked  word,  was  one  in 
which  he  himself  had  played  the  part  of  the  crimi- 
nous hero. 

The  writing  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  absorbed  all 
his  thoughts  at  a  time  when  the  world  at  large  was 
engrossed  with  greater  affairs.  The  Franco-Ger- 
man War,  that  struggle  of  giants,  which  the  seniors 
of  this  generation  justly  regard  as  the  greatest  epic 
of  their  lives,  was  shaking  the  very  earth  in  its  furi- 
ous course  while  Black,  in  his  little  room  at  Catherine 
Terrace,  was  weaving  the  delicate  and  tender  love 
story  that  was  to  make  him  famous.  He  was  a 
journalist,  seated  in  the  editor's  room  of  a  great 
London  daily,  and  he  had,  in  consequence,  to  deal 
every  day,  and  almost  every  hour,  with  the  tre- 
mendous incidents  of  the  swiftly  moving  drama  on 
which  mankind  gazed  fascinated  and  terror-stricken. 
Those  who  remember  that  time  can  bear  witness  to 
the  fact  that  few  of  us  had  any  thought  for  any- 
thing but  the  battle-fields  of  Lorraine  and  the  girdle 
of  steel  round  Paris.  Yet  Black  had  the  power  of 
shutting  out  the  outside  world,  even  at  a  moment 
like  this,  from  his  mind.  He  was  as  much  absorbed 
in  the  story  of  Coquette  as  though  no  war  had  been 
carried  to  the  very  borders  of  the  English  Channel, 
and  no  spectacle  like  the  downfall  of  the  Second 
Empire  had  been  presented  to  our  wondering  eyes. 
This  power  of  absorption  in  his  own  work  and  his 
own  imaginary  world  was  one  of  the  most  striking 
of   Black's   characteristics.      He    had    possessed   it 

79 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

even  in  his  boyish  days  at  Glasgow,  and  it  grew 
stronger  almost  to  the  end  of  his  life;  but  its  ex- 
istence was  never  more  strikingly  demonstrated 
than  in  his  writing  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  during 
that  time  of  titanic  convulsion.  The  real  world  for 
Black  during  those  months  of  labor  was  not  the 
world  in  which  one  empire  fell  and  another  sprang 
into  being  on  the  battle-field,  but  that  in  which 
Coquette  lived  her  pure  and  simple  life  out  to  the 
end. 

The  story  was  published  originally  in  the  weekly 
edition  of  the  Glasgoiv  Herald.  It  had  admirers 
while  running  its  course  in  that  journal,  but  it  was 
too  delicate  in  character,  too  fine  in  execution,  to 
suit  the  tastes  of  the  majority  of  the  class  among 
which  the  weekly  Herald  circulated.  At  any  rate, 
though  it  was  praised  by  some  discerning  readers, 
it  did  not  add  a  single  copy  to  the  number  of  Her- 
alds that  were  sold,  and  not  a  word  was  said  about 
it  during  its  serial  publication  by  any  of  the  critics. 
Black  had,  in  short,  no  evidence  from  the  outside 
that  A  Daughter  of  Heth  was  likely  to  prove  more 
successful  than  his  earlier  stories.  But  he  knew 
the  truth  about  it,  and  he,  who  had  been  the  severe 
critic  and  judge  of  his  own  earlier  work,  was  con- 
vinced in  his  own  mind  that  he  had  now  produced 
something  that  was  almost  equal  to  the  standard 
he  had  set  before  himself.  Accordingly,  he  resolved 
that  he  would  use  this  new  book  for  the  purpose  of 
that  experiment  upon  which  he  had  determined 
when  stung  by  the  acrid  sneers  of  the  Saturday 
Review  at  a  Scotch  writer  who  had  the  presumption 

80 


STORY    PUBLISHED    ANONYMOUSLY 

to  write  English  novels.  Anonymously  the  story 
had  been  published  in  the  Glasgoiv  Herald,  and 
anonymously  it  was  given  to  the  world  when  repro- 
duced in  1871  in  the  orthodox  three-volume  form. 
Among  Black's  friends  at  this  stage  of  his  life 
was  Mrs.  Kroeker,  the  daughter  of  the  distinguish- 
ed German  poet,  Ferdinand  Freiligrath.  For  the 
poet  Black  had  a  great  admiration,  and  between 
him  and  the  poet's  daughter  a  cordial  friendship 
sprang  up.  I  am  indebted  to  Mrs.  Kroeker  for 
permission  to  use  some  of  the  letters  that  Black 
addressed  to  her : 

To  Mrs.  Kroeker. 

"Daily  News"  Office,  London, 

May  12,  1871. 
DEAR  MRS.  KROEKER,— In  order  to  explain  to  you 
why  I  cannot  accept  your  very  kind  invitation  for  Sun- 
day, I  am  going  to  let  you  into  a  profound  secret.  In  a 
few  days  there  will  be  published  a  novel  called  A  Daughter 
of  Heth.  There  will  be  no  name  on  the  title-page — but 
hush!  Let  us  dissemble!  "  Ich  habe  es  gethan,"  as  Miiller 
said.  So  you  will  understand  that  at  the  present  moment 
I  am  up  to  the  eyes  in  proof-sheets.  Have  j^ou  a  library 
at  Forest  Hill?  The  chances  are  that  the  young  person 
I  speak  of  will  make  her  appearance  there  in  a  week  or 
ten  days;  and  if  she  should  be  dismayed  and  abashed 
by  the  splendor  of  the  Forest  Hill  ladies,  who  seem,  es- 
pecially on  Sunday  at  eleven,  to  have  a  most  gorgeous 
and  exceptional  variety  of  colors  in  their  attire,  I  hope 
you  will,  with  your  usual  kindness,  take  her  by  the  hand 
and  endeavor  to  reassure  her.  She  is  not  a  wicked  young 
woman,  although  you  may  think  so  by  that  Scriptural 
reference,  and  I  shall  prove  the  catholicity  of  your  sen- 
6  81 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

timents  by  your  reception  of  her,  for  she  is — I  regret  to 
say — French. 

When  this  business  is  over,  and  when  this  cxnfxunxed 
(is  that  vague  enough?)  weather  has  passed  off,  I  hope 
to  make  a  visitation  on  you  some  Sunday  morning.  I 
hope  you  got  home  safely  from  the  Friedensfest,  and  that 
the  autocrat  whom  you  bless  with  a  capital  "  T "  in 
"  tyrant  "  was  not  more  tyrannical  than  usual  in  view 
of  your  taking  him  away  from  the  awful  orgies  which 
followed.  What  I  chiefly  remember  is  Dr.  B.  howling 
for  tons  of  beer  (after  our  drinking  champagne  out  of  tubs 
at  half-past  seven  in  the  morning).  It  was  a  quarter  to 
nine  in  the  morning,  and  I  will  add  this,  that  an  Irishman 
and  a  Scotchman  "  saw  out  "  all  your  countrymen  who 
sat  down  to  the  banquet.  It  is  all  the  result  of  bad  habits  I 
have  acquired  since  they  made  me  a  member  of  the  Kunst- 
verein.  Pray  give  my  kindest  regards  to  Mr.  Kroeker, 
and  tell  him  how  fortunate  he  is  to  have  some  one  to  take 
him  away  from  those  haunts  of  tobacco  and  wine  which 
some  of  his  friends — through  a  weakness  of  resolution 
— are  unable  to  leave  until  they  have  laid  the  basis  of  a 
headache.  Still,  I  must  say  this  for  the  Turnhalle  liquor, 
that  it  was  so  good  I  had  no  more  sensation  next  day  than 
if  I  had  merely  taken  a  squencher  at  Simpson's  in  Ox- 
ford Street.  Doubtless,  you  don't  know  the  place — but  no 
matter.  Faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

May  20,  1871. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  KROEKER, — I  tear  my  hair  with  rage. 
First,  I  was  asked  to  go  to  the  Kunstverein  on  Thursday. 
Couldn't.  Then,  by  a  friend  of  Pauline  Canissa,  to  go 
to  hear  that  celebrated  young  person  make  her  debut  at 
the  opera.  Couldn't.  Then,  most  attractive  of  all,  you 
offer  me  the  pleasure  of  an  evening  at  Sydenham,  and 

82 


LETTERS    TO    MRS.    KROEKER 

the  answer  is  still  the  same — Can't.  I  am  thrown  back 
on  the  question,  "  What  is  the  value  of  life?"  Last  even- 
ing I  had  a  holiday,  and  spent  it  in  as  stupid  a  fashion 
as  is  imaginable — although  a  very  usual  one  with  some 
unfortunate  people  who  have  nothing  to  do.  That  is 
to  say,  I  dined  with  a  friend  at  a  club,  smoked,  played 
billiards,  and  had  a  headache  in  the  morning.  The  head- 
ache was  from  the  billiards. 

I  am  really  very  sorry  that  I  cannot  get  down,  but  as 
you  talk  of  seeing  the  MacCarthys,  I  suppose  you  and 
Mr.  Kroeker  will  be  back  before  "  red  autumn  dies  amid 
the  winter  mists."  Give  my  love  to  all  the  pretty  young 
ladies  you  see  on  the  Rhine  steamers — English  or  German, 
it  is  no  matter — and  pray  remember  me  very  kindly  to 
your  papa  and  mamma  when  you  see  them.  The  Daughter 
of  Heth  was  kept  in-doors  by  the  east  wind  longer  than  was 
expected,  but  I  hear  she  has  taken  her  walks  abroad  to-day. 
Best  remembrances  to  Mr.  Kroeker,  and  with  all  good 
wishes  for  your  voyage, 

Believe  me, 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

London, 

May  31,  1871. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  KROEKER,— I  am  sorely  afraid  I  shall 
not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before  you  go  to  Ger- 
many—  I  see  before  me  such  an  appalling  series  of  oc- 
cupations. So  I  must  wish  you  and  Mr.  Kroeker  a 
"  Gluckliche  Reisel"  May  you  be  attended  with  the 
pleasant  weather  which  seems  now  to  have  set  in ;  and  I 
hope  your  friend  the  cuckoo  will  say  good-bye  before  you 
go.  Love  or  Marriage  is  not  immoral — well,  it  is  hard 
to  say  what  meanings  the  Brompton  D.  may  not  have 
found  in  it — but  it  is  crude  and  harsh,  and  dull,  which 

83 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

is  worse.  Don't  read  it.  Bret  Harte  is  excellent;  but  if 
you  have  the  book,  pray  look  again  at  Jim.  I  think  the 
force  of  the  verses  is  wonderful.  Kindest  regards  to  Mr. 
Kroeker  and  yourself. 

Faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 

For  a  few  weeks  after  its  first  appearance  the 
fate  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  hung  in  the  balance. 
But  then,  as  it  were  in  a  moment,  the  reading  world 
awoke  to  a  consciousness  of  the  fact  that  a  notable 
addition  had  been  made  to  English  fiction,  and  that 
a  writer  had  appeared  among  us  who  could  touch 
the  hearts  of  his  readers  as  if  with  the  magic  wand 
of  genius,  compelling  assent,  even  as  he  compelled 
the  unwilling  tears  to  rise  to  the  eyes  of  hardened 
men  and  women  of  the  world.  And,  strange  to  say, 
the  first  trumpet-note  proclaiming  the  verdict  of  the 
critics  on  its  author  was  that  which  was  sounded 
by  the  Saturday  Review.  Black's  innocent  strat- 
agem had  succeeded  beyond  his  wildest  hopes — 
succeeded  so  wTell  that  it  was  always  thereafter 
with  a  certain  touch  of  penitence  that  he  referred 
to  the  little  deception  he  had  practised.  Probably 
he  was  wholly  in  error  in  the  belief  that  some  per- 
sonal feeling  existed  against  him  on  the  part  of  any- 
body connected  with  the  Saturday  Review.  But 
every  man  of  letters  who  has  had  to  submit  to  crit- 
icism knows  how  easy  it  is  to  fall  into  such  an  error. 
Black  himself  did  not  judge  his  earlier  works  so 
favorably  that  he  could  feel  quite  certain  that  the 
unfavorable  judgments  of  others  were  inspired  by 
personal    malice.     But    whatever    may    have    been 

84 


A     DAZZLING     SUCCESS 

the  truth  regarding  the  past,  the  Saturday  Review 
had  now  atoned  nobly  for  any  wrong  that  Black  had 
suffered  at  its  hands.  There  was  both  knowledge 
and  sympathy  in  its  review  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth, 
and  appreciation  of  the  most  generous  and  spon- 
taneous kind.  And  in  those  days  the  approbation 
of  the  Saturday  Revieiv  was  a  passport  to  fame. 
Men  might,  and  did,  succeed  without  it,  but  once 
having  gained  it,  they  succeeded  more  quickly  than 
by  any  other  means.  A  chorus  of  praise,  loud  and 
earnest,  was  raised  by  the  whole  press  as  the  re- 
views of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  appeared  in  one  journal 
after  another ;  and  then,  to  the  approval  of  the  critics 
was  added  something  still  more  precious,  the  ratifica- 
tion of  their  verdict  by  the  reading  world.  In  that 
summer  of  1871,  when  men  and  women  turned, 
sated  and  horror-stricken,  from  the  woful  tale  of 
carnage  and  misery  in  France,  they  found  a  most 
welcome  relief  in  the  perusal  of  the  simple  story 
which  told  with  such  delicacy  and  pathos  the  episode 
of  the  sojourning  of  Coquette  in  the  household  of 
the  Scotch  minister.  It  is  only  once  or  twice  in  a 
decade  that  any  work  of  fiction  meets  with  instan- 
taneous and  universal  acceptance.  This  was  the 
happy  fortune  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  and  when  the 
secret  of  the  authorship  was  quickly  discovered, 
Black  found  himself  raised  in  a  moment  to  the 
position  of  a  literary  lion.  He  was  on  the  crest  of 
the  wave,  the  sun  shining  upon  him  with  almost 
dazzling  brilliancy.  It  is  a  dangerous  position  for 
any  man,  and  it  is  one  which  no  man  is  permitted  to 
occupy  for  long.     Happy  are  those  who  can  meet 

85 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

this  sudden  change  of  fortune,  with  its  attendant 
blaze  of  fame,  with  modesty  and  self-control.  Happy, 
too,  are  those  who  realize  that  the  first  flush  of  a 
glorious  success  is  something  that  can  never  be  re- 
peated. Only  once  in  any  man's  lifetime  can  he 
experience  the  delight  which  public  recognition 
after  years  of  obscurity  brings  with  it.  Black's 
friends  of  his  early  days  were  almost  prouder  of  the 
manner  in  which  he  bore  his  sudden  and  dazzling 
success  than  of  the  success  itself.  William  Barry, 
who  was  one  of  those  who  were  nearest  to  him  at 
the  time  when  A  Daughter  of  Heth  changed  his 
career  and  his  place  in  the  world,  was  never  tired 
of  dwelling,  with  the  generous  appreciation  of  friend- 
ship, upon  the  fact  that  Black  remained  absolutely 
the  same  after  he  had  won  his  reward  as  before. 
But  the  change  in  his  circumstances  was  very  great. 
Before  the  publication  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  he 
was  merely  one  of  a  large  body  of  almost  unknown 
writing-men  in  London  in  whose  futures  their  friends 
had  confidence,  but  whom  the  world  had  ignored. 
A  few  weeks  after  the  book  appeared  everybody 
was  talking  about  it  and  about  him,  and  his  friend- 
ship was  sought  as  an  honor  by  men  and  women 
from  whom  he  had  seemed  but  lately  to  be  absolutely 
cut  off.  He  enjoyed  the  sudden  change,  of  course, 
as  who  would  not  have  done  so?  It  meant  much 
more  to  him  than  the  dubious  pleasures  of  celebrity. 
Hitherto  he  had  certainly  not  enriched  himself  by 
his  labors  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  If  the  truth  were 
to  be  told,  in  fact,  he  had  sacrificed  a  portion  of  his 
income  as  a  journalist  in  order  to  devote  himself  to 

86 


CHANGED    CIRCUMSTANCES 

the  work  to  which  he  felt  himself  specially  called. 
Now  he  knew  that  he  had  gained  a  position  in  the 
world  of  letters  that  made  his  writing  of  value  from 
the  purely  mercenary  point  of  view.  If  he  had  suf- 
fered in  his  younger  days  from  the  business  keenness 
of  the  publishers,  and  their  doubts  as  to  his  success, 
he  was  in  a  different  position  now.  A  few  years 
later  he  could  exclaim  with  something  like  exulta- 
tion :  "  I  have  my  foot  upon  their  necks ;  it  is  they 
who  must  come  to  me  now,  not  I  who  have  to  go  to 
them."  This  was  not,  of  course,  the  case  immedi- 
ately after  his  first  success.  But  already  A  Daugh- 
ter of  Heth  had  made  him  a  man  of  mark,  for  whose 
next  piece  of  work  enterprising  publishers  com- 
peted eagerly.  That  he  keenly  enjoyed  this  side  of 
success  is  certain.  It  freed  him  from  all  pecuniary 
anxiety,  and  it  enabled  him  to  satisfy  that  crav- 
ing for  beautiful  things  and  a  life  of  luxurious 
refinement  which  he  had  always  had.  He  was  no 
sybarite.  He  was  at  all  times  the  most  conscien- 
tious and  industrious  of  workmen,  never  sparing 
himself  when  work  had  to  be  done.  But  he  had  an 
unfeigned  liking  for  fair  surroundings,  for  a  beauti- 
ful home,  and  for  the  recreations  which  no  wise  man 
who  takes  an  all-round  view  of  life  undervalues. 
Hitherto  his  pleasures  had  necessarily  been  com- 
paratively simple  and  inexpensive;  now,  with  an 
increasing  and  assured  income,  he  was  able  to 
spread  his  wings  and  indulge  in  flights  that  had 
been  forbidden  to  him  before.  His  house  was  no 
longer  furnished  in  the  simple  style  that  had  sufficed 
at  Hounslow.     He  bought  pictures.     He  became  a 

S7 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

wonderful  judge  of  cigars,  never  smoking  any  but 
the  best  (this  was  perhaps  his  only  extravagance). 
He  joined  a  West  End  club,  and  he  dressed  with  an 
attention  to  the  fashions  of  the  hour  that  sometimes 
disconcerted  those  who  looked  upon  him  with  rev- 
erence as  a  great  prose-poet,  and  who  had  expected 
to  find  that  he  had  the  indifference  to  such  small 
things  as  clothes  and  personal  appearance  which 
is  supposed  to  be  the  traditional  characteristic  of 
men  of  genius.  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  will 
think  the  worse  of  Black  because  of  these  traits  in 
his  character.  They  were  part  of  his  nature — the 
complement  of  those  rare  gifts  which  enabled  him 
to  discern  all  the  beauty  of  the  clouds  and  the  morn- 
ing skies  in  a  mountain  land.  Nay,  I  think  that 
they  were  also  the  complement  of  that  wonderful 
power  of  his  that  enabled  him  to  read  a  woman's 
nature  with  an  almost  unerring  intuition,  and  to 
make  that  nature  perceptible  to  others  by  an  art  so 
skilful  that  its  mechanism  was  always  impercep- 
tible. But  whether  his  love  of  "  the  good  things  of 
this  life"  was  a  virtue  or  a  fault,  it  undoubtedly 
existed,  and  no  faithful  biographer  can  ignore  the 
fact. 

It  does  not  follow,  however,  that  there  was  any 
real  change  in  Black's  spirit  because  of  the  change 
that  gradually  took  place  in  his  outward  appearance 
and  surroundings.  To  the  very  last  there  was  a 
curious  note  of  simplicity  about  him  that  contrasted 
forcibly  with  the  conventional  conditions  of  his  life 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  admitted  as  of  right  to  the 
most  exclusive  circles.     He  was  in  the  world,  but 

88 


BLACK    IN    SOCIETY 

he  was  never  quite  of  it.  He  acquired  with  great 
quickness  the  art  of  talking  the  jargon  of  society. 
But  it  was  always  plainly  a  foreign  language  on 
his  tongue ;  and  he  was  never  really  at  home  in  that 
brilliant  London  society  which,  after  the  appear- 
ance of  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  was  but  too  glad  to 
open  its  doors  to  him.  The  truth  was  that  in  his 
heart  he  was  quite  unspoiled.  If  he  felt  it  to  be  right 
to  conform  to  new  conditions  of  life  very  different 
from  those  which  he  had  known  in  his  boyhood  and 
his  first  years  of  journalism,  he  was  never  forgetful 
of  the  old  ways  and  the  old  friends.  Thus,  while 
he  accepted  with  frank  satisfaction  the  change  in 
his  position  which  gave  him  access  to  comforts  and 
pleasures  that  only  the  wealthy  can  afford,  he  clung 
as  closely  as  ever  to  his  old  friends,  and  was  hap- 
pier in  their  society  than  in  any  other. 

I  have  said  that  he  was  never  quite  at  home  in 
what  is  known  as  society.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
that  which  he  least  enjoyed  among  the  fruits  of  his 
brilliant  success  was  the  social  prominence  that  was 
forced  upon  him.  He  had  always  been  a  social 
creature,  and  he  could  not,  as  some  men  of  genius 
have  done,  take  refuge  in  absolute  seclusion  from 
the  increasing  social  pressure  which  comes  in  the 
train  of  notoriety.  He  loved  to  go  among  his  fel- 
low-men. He  delighted  in  watching  the  clash  of 
intellect  with  intellect,  in  listening  to  the  talk  of 
men  and  women,  and  in  studying  human  char- 
acter in  all  its  aspects.  He  was  almost  fascinated 
by  the  strange,  unfamiliar  phases  of  life  that  were 
opened  to  him  when  he  was  enabled  to  pass  from 

89 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

the  pleasant,  unceremonious  circles  of  Bohemia  to 
the  great  drawing-rooms  of  Belgravia,  where  he 
breathed  the  atmosphere  of  a  social  life  more  com- 
plicated, and  in  the  conventional  sense  more  ele- 
vated, than  that  which  can  be  found  anywhere  else 
in  the  world.  But  if  it  fascinated  him,  it  troubled 
him  also ;  and  too  frequently,  when  he  had  been  in- 
vited to  some  great  gathering  where  beauty  and 
rank  and  wealth  gladly  welcomed  talent,  he  would 
stand  a  silent  spectator  of  the  show,  observing  every- 
thing, but  saying  nothing.  If  he  appreciated  the 
success  that  had  opened  this  new  wrorld  to  him,  it 
was  not  because  he  found  personal  pleasure  in  the 
scenes  to  which  he  was  now  admitted,  but  because 
they  afforded  him  the  opportunity  of  studying  new 
phases  of  human  life  and  new  types  of  character. 
One  may  well  believe  that  while  outwardly  he  looked 
the  very  embodiment  of  the  man  of  the  world  as  he 
stood  in  the  crowd  in  some  Mayfair  festivity,  in- 
wardly he  knew  that  an  impassable  chasm  divided 
him  from  the  company  around  him.  It  is  pleasant 
to  recall  once  more  the  testimony  of  his  friend  Barry, 
with  whom  his  lot  was  at  this  period  of  his  life  so 
closely  intertwined,  and  to  know  how  little  the  change 
of  outward  circumstances  had  affected  Black's  heart 
or  turned  his  head.  In  the  great  essentials  of  char- 
acter and  disposition  the  author  of  A  Daughter  of 
Heth  differed  not  at  all  from  the  writer  of  the  unsuc- 
cessful Love  or  Marriage. 

There  was  one  special  point  in  which  the  Black 
of  1 87 1  was  identical  with  the  boy  who  had  come  to 
London  seven  years  before.     This  wTas  in  his  re- 

90 


HIS    GERMAN    FRIENDS 

solve  not  to  loiter  by  the  way,  not  to  waste  in  pleas- 
ure the  precious  time  which  might  be  spent  in  work. 
No  sooner  were  his  hands  free  from  the  task  of  cor- 
recting the  proofs  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  than  he 
began  to  prepare  for  his  next  venture  in  fiction. 
This  was  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton. 
The  reader  will  have  gathered  from  his  letters  to 
Mrs.  Kroeker  that  he  was  at  this  time  seeing  a  good 
deal  of  the  German  colony  in  London.  I  have  al- 
ready told  how  deep  were  his  sympathies  with  Ger- 
man literature  and  the  German  character.  His  mar- 
riage had  strengthened  them,  but  it  was  not  until, 
through  the  friendly  influence  of  the  Kroekers  and 
other  German  residents  in  England  with  whom  he 
became  acquainted,  he  was  admitted  into  full  par- 
ticipation in  the  mysteries — occasionally  a  trifle  too 
jovial — of  Kunstvereins  and  Turnvereins,  that  he 
gave  full  vent  to  this  side  of  his  feelings.  He 
had  not  been  so  much  absorbed  in  the  writing  of  A 
Daughter  of  Heth  as  not  to  know  what  was  happen- 
ing on  the  Continent,  and  he  had  been  filled  with 
admiration  for  the  fine  qualities  which  were  dis- 
played by  the  German  soldiers  during  the  invasion 
of  France.  Some  of  these  same  soldiers  came  over 
to  London  at  the  close  of  the  war,  and  he  met  them 
in  the  houses  of  his  German  friends.  The  result 
was  that  he  determined  to  make  the  hero  of  his  next 
story  a  German  —  an  imaginary  person,  of  course, 
but  one  in  whom  the  solid  virtues  of  the  national 
character  were  to  be  embodied.  It  is  not  impossible 
that  he  was  the  more  anxious  to  do  this  because  the 
heroine  of  his  last  story  had  been  a  Frenchwoman. 

9i 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

The  framework  of  this  new  romance  had  the  great 
merit  of  originality.  I  cannot  say  how  it  first  oc- 
curred to  him  to  pack  the  characters  of  a  novel  into 
a  phaeton,  and  to  send  them  touring  along  the  high- 
ways between  London  and  Edinburgh.  Some  of 
the  classics  of  English  fiction  deal  with  adventures 
en  voyage,  and  this  fact  may  have  suggested  the  plan 
of  the  new  book.  There  is  another  and  a  simpler 
theory  which  is,  I  imagine,  nearer  the  truth.  He 
had  his  annual  holiday  from  the  drudgery  of  the 
newspaper  office  in  Bouverie  Street  to  take.  He  was 
very  fond  of  driving,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
there  could  be  no  pleasanter  holiday  than  a  driv- 
ing tour  through  England;  and  then,  being  always 
anxious  to  make  the  best  use  of  his  opportunities, 
the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  accumu- 
late materials  as  he  went  along  for  incorporation  in 
his  new  book.  Such,  I  venture  to  think,  is  the  true 
story  of  the  genesis  of  the  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton. 
At  all  events,  in  the  early  summer  of  1871  he  started 
on  a  real  phaeton  trip  of  his  own  through  the  scenery 
which  he  afterwards  described  so  vividly  in  his  story. 
But  although  the  origin  of  the  story  may  have  been 
prosaic,  those  who  knew  the  author  are  aware  that 
the  romance  of  his  life  is  written  in  this  book — the 
striking  freshness  and  novelty  of  which,  when  it 
began  to  appear  in  Macmillan's  Magazine,  at  once 
secured  for  him  a  new  world  of  readers  and  admir- 
ers. The  relations  of  the  Phaeton  to  his  own  life 
and  the  light  which  the  story  throws  upon  his  meth- 
ods of  work  are  so  great  that  the  book  requires  more 
than  passing  notice  here. 

92 


THE    REAL    PHAETON    DRIVE 

For  some  time  past  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
taking  long  drives  in  the  country  surrounding  Lon- 
don in  a  phaeton  which  he  hired  from  a  job-master 
in  Holborn.  Sir  Robert  Giffen  recalls  Black's  com- 
ing more  than  once  to  his  house  in  Pembroke  Road 
in  1 87 1,  and  taking  him  and  his  wife  out  for  a  drive 
through  Richmond  Park  or  some  other  pleasant 
suburb.  It  was  when  driving  on  one  of  these  oc- 
casions, with  Mrs.  Giffen  seated  beside  him,  that 
he  told  that  lady  of  the  success  of  A  Daughter  of 
Heth,  and  of  the  prospect  which  was  now  opening 
before  him.  When  he  resolved  to  take  his  long 
drive  through  England,  he  asked  the  Giffens  to  be 
his  companions,  but  business  engagements  made 
this  impossible,  to  the  lasting  regret  of  Sir  Robert. 
He  then  turned  to  another  old  friend,  his  colleague 
in  the  counting-house  in  Birchin  Lane,  Mr.  R.  S. 
Williams,  and  secured  his  companionship  on  a  jour- 
ney which  was  destined  to  become  famous  in  litera- 
ture. So  far  as  the  phaeton  trip  itself  was  concerned, 
the  description  given  by  Black  in  the  story  may  be 
taken  as  absolutely  accurate. 

Even  the  first  detour,  when  the  phaeton  was  taken 
to  Twickenham,  after  leaving  London,  was  an  act- 
ual fact.  The  simple  reason  for  this  preliminary 
jaunt  to  Twickenham,  before  the  North  Road  was 
taken  in  earnest,  was  that  Mr.  Williams  happened 
to  be  staying  there,  and,  to  save  him  the  trouble  of 
coming  up  to  town,  Black  undertook  to  call  for  him 
at  his  summer  quarters.  Together  then  the  two 
young  men  set  off,  and  together  they  remained  un- 
til the  end  of  their  holiday.     The  drive  to  Edin- 

93 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

burgh  took  just  three  weeks.  There  is  no  need  to 
give  any  description  of  it  here,  for  has  it  not  already 
been  described  by  a  master -hand?  But  some  of 
my  readers  will  be  interested  to  know  that  the  real 
journey,  of  which  they  have  read  the  story  as  trans- 
muted in  Black's  imagination,  was  absolutely  with- 
out incident  or  adventure  of  any  kind.  They  spent 
three  placid,  almost  monotonous,  weeks  upon  the 
road.  Mr.  Williams,  who  has  artistic  tastes  and 
skill,  occasionally  sketched  a  face  or  a  bit  of  scenery. 
Black  had  with  him  a  small  note-book,  in  which  he 
entered  day  by  day  the  brief  memoranda  that  he 
was  afterwards  to  expand  so  freely.  Their  great 
pride,  when  they  had  reached  Edinburgh  in  safety 
and  brought  their  phaeton  journey  to  an  end,  was 
that  the  horse  which  had  carried  them  so  far  was  in 
as  good  condition  as  when  it  started  from  Holborn. 
Black,  who  had  driven  the  whole  way,  was  not  a 
little  satisfied  with  this  achievement,  and  when  the 
pleasant  holiday  came  to  a  close,  he  and  his  com- 
panion were  in  the  placid  frame  of  mind  that  proved 
that  they  had  enjoyed  themselves.  They  returned 
to  London  by  train,  and  forthwith  the  novelist  be- 
gan to  prepare  his  materials  for  the  new  story.  His 
advance  in  the  world  of  authorship  was  proved  by 
the  fact  that  Messrs.  Macmillan  made  overtures  to 
him  for  its  publication,  and  expressed  a  desire  to 
make  it  the  serial  in  their  magazine  for  the  follow- 
ing year.  They  were,  I  believe,  somewhat  startled 
when  they  learned  that  the  new  romance  was  to  be 
set  in  a  topographical  framework,  and  they  would 
have  preferred  a  novel  of  a  more  orthodox  character. 

94 


A    ROMANCE    OF    HIS    OWN 

My  own  recollection  of  what  Black  told  me  of  his 
dealings  with  the  Macmillans  on  this  point  was  that 
he  removed  any  scruples  they  had  as  to  the  publi- 
cation of  the  Phaeton  in  the  magazine  by  under- 
taking to  let  them  have,  when  it  was  completed,  a 
genuine  romance. 

But  now  a  romance  of  his  own  began  to  be  woven 
about  him.  Before  I  refer  further  to  the  story  of 
his  engagement  and  marriage  to  Miss  Eva  Wharton 
Simpson,  some  of  the  letters  relating  to  the  period 
immediately  following  the  phaeton  trip  may  be  in- 
troduced : 

To  Mrs.  Kroeker. 

"Daily  News"  Office, 

November  2,  1871. 
MY  DEAR  MRS.  KROEKER,— Could  you  conveniently 
send  to  4  Catherine  Terrace  a  copy  of  Mr.  Freiligrath's 
Prince  Eugen,  der  edle  Ritter,  by  Saturday  morning?  I 
make  this  bold  and  sudden,  not  to  say  impudent,  request, 
because  I  should  like  to  say  something  about  it  in  the  first 
number  of  my  Macmillan  story.  If  you  will  please  send 
it  to  me  I  will  faithfully  return  it  next  week — as  sure — as 
sure — as  sure  as  anything.     In  great  haste. 

Most  faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

December  4,  187 1. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  KROEKER,— Amid  your  multifarious 
duties  could  you  find  a  moment  to  look  over  the  accom- 
panying proof,  and  tell  me  how  many  mistakes  there  are 
in  it  on  every  possible  feminine  point,  and  whether  Prince 
Eugen  is  fairly  indicated.  Have  I  to  thank  you  for  a  very 
neat  and  handy  edition  of  your  volume  of  translations? 

95 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

I  suppose  so;  and  send  you  my  warmest  thanks  for  it. 
But  why  didn't  you  include  Prince  Eugen  among  your 
own  translations? 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 

The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton  began  to 
appear  in  Macmillan's  Magazine  in  January,  1872. 
The  story  attracted  attention  in  the  first  instance 
because  it  was  written  by  the  author  of  A  Daughter 
0/  Heth.  When  it  wTas  found  that  it  was  not  a  ro- 
mance of  the  conventional  kind,  there  was  some 
disappointment  among  Black's  admirers.  Indeed, 
the  first  instalment  of  the  tale  produced  a  feeling  of 
bewilderment  in  many  households.  It  was  so  novel 
in  its  form  that  many  readers  were  puzzled  by  it, 
and  were  wholly  unable  to  arrive  at  any  conclusion 
as  to  its  real  nature.  Was  it  to  be  the  mere  record 
of  a  driving  tour,  with  a  thin  thread  of  story  thrown 
in  to  bind  the  different  scenes  together,  or  was  it  to 
develop  into  a  real  romance,  of  which  the  scenery 
was  merely  to  be  the  background?  It  was  with  a 
good  deal  of  hesitation  that  his  readers  received 
the  first  instalment  of  The  Phaeton,  and,  if  one  may 
judge  from  contemporary  criticism,  with  some  dis- 
appointment also.  But  the  story  had  not  gone  far 
before  the  doubts  and  fears  aroused  by  its  opening 
pages  were  completely  dispelled.  Then,  the  very 
freshness  of  the  style  and  manner  of  treatment  gave 
an  additional  impetus  to  the  favor  with  which  the 
new  story  was  received  by  the  public,  and  every- 
body began  to  read  and  talk  about  the  wonderful 

96 


BLACK'S    ADMIRERS 

phaeton  and  its  occupants.  But  Black's  admirers 
soon  began  to  resolve  themselves  into  two  schools. 
His  descriptive  powers  were  now  first  revealed  to 
the  public.  Here  was  a  man  who  with  his  steel  pen 
could  paint  the  cloud  scenery  of  a  gorgeous  sunset 
or  some  fair  landscape  bathed  in  the  mellow  light 
of  noontide,  with  all  the  richness,  the  fulness  of 
color,  and  even  the  vague  suggestiveness  that  dis- 
tinguished the  brush  of  Turner.  The  art  was  al- 
most a  new  one  in  English  literature.  Even  Mr. 
Ruskin  in  generous  praise  admitted  that  this  young 
writer  had  done  things  that  he  could  never  attempt. 
No  such  landscape  painting,  no  such  vivid  impres- 
sions of  the  shifting  shapes  and  hues  of  the  morn- 
ing and  evening  sky,  had  ever  before  adorned  the 
pages  of  our  literature.  If  The  Strange  Adventures 
of  a  Phaeton  were  to  prove  only  a  guide-book  in  dis- 
guise, then  assuredly  it  was  such  a  guide-book  as 
we  had  never  possessed  before.  But  as  the  serial 
ran  its  course  in  the  magazine  it  was  seen  that  only 
half  its  charm  lay  in  these  wonderful  descriptive 
passages,  glowing  with  color  and  brilliant  with  at- 
mospheric effects  such  as  had  never  before  been 
rendered  in  English  prose.  It  had  the  other  charm 
of  delightful  character  sketching.  The  men  and 
women  to  whom  we  were  introduced  were  few  in 
number,  but  they  were  real,  and  they  included  two 
women  who  at  once  seized  the  fancy  of  the  British 
public,  and  held  it  even  as  Coquette  had  done  be- 
fore. Some  of  the  young  author's  admirers  gave 
unstinted  praise  to  his  descriptions  of  our  English 
scenery,  and  said  but  little  of  the  story  and  char- 
7  97 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

acters  of  the  Phaeton.  Others  found  the  story  charm- 
ing in  its  freshness  and  brightness,  and  such  char- 
acters as  Tita  and  Bell  a  distinct  addition  to  the 
great  portrait  gallery  of  fiction.  Thus,  as  I  have 
said,  Black's  admirers  became  divided  into  two 
classes,  and  the  division  was  never  wholly  effaced 
in  later  years.  It  was,  I  think,  the  Phaeton  which 
first  gained  for  him  the  sympathy  and  admira- 
tion of  the  artists  of  his  time — a  sympathy  and  ad- 
miration which  he  possessed  in  a  greater  degree 
than  any  of  his  contemporaries  in  the  world  of  let- 
ters. The  reader  knows  what  Black's  first  passion 
in  life  had  been.  His  whole  ambition  had  been  to 
gain  power  and  fame  as  an  artist,  and  most  of  his 
friends  in  his  early  years  had  been  men  of  like  tastes 
with  himself.  He  had  been  drawn  from  the  pursuit 
of  art  by  the  necessities  of  life,  and  his  career  as  a 
journalist  had  thrown  him  into  a  different  circle 
from  that  which  has  its  centre  in  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy. But  his  heart  had  always  been  true  to  his 
old  love ;  and  now,  to  his  unfeigned  delight,  he  found 
that  he  had  done  with  his  pen  what  he  never  could 
have  accomplished  with  his  brush,  and  had  secured 
the  recognition  and  admiration  of  the  whole  artistic 
world  of  London.  The  great  artists  of  his  time 
eagerly  sought  the  acquaintance  of  a  writer  who 
could  make  beautiful  landscapes  arise  as  if  by  the 
touch  of  a  magic  wand  before  the  eye  of  his  reader. 
Not  a  few  of  them  confessed  that  they  learned  much 
from  Black's  pages.  That  he  had  himself  the  eye  of 
the  artist  was  evident,  and  so  he  was  taken  into  the 
artistic  fellowship  with  that  characteristic  warmth 

98 


FRIENDSHIP     WITH    ARTISTS 

and  generous  recognition  which  have  always  dis- 
tinguished it.  From  this  time  henceforth  he  be- 
came one  of  the  most  familiar  figures  in  the  art  cir- 
cles of  London,  and  some  of  the  closest  and  most 
intimate  friendships  of  his  life  were  those  that  he 
formed  with  distinguished  painters  who  welcomed 
him  not  only  as  a  kindred  spirit  but  a  fellow-artist. 
The  literal  critics  who  watched  the  story  of  The 
Phaeton  as  it  was  unfolded  in  the  pages  of  the  maga- 
zine could  not,  of  course,  be  expected  to  discern  the 
remarkable  technical  merits  of  Black's  descriptive 
writing.  Mr.  Ruskin  did  so,  and  was  warm  and 
outspoken  in  his  praise;  but  then  Mr.  Ruskin  was 
an  artist  as  well  as  a  writer.  To  the  purely  literary 
critic,  that  which  gave  to  Black's  description  of 
scenery  its  special  charm  was  the  vein  of  poetry 
that  insensibly,  as  it  were,  ran  through  all  that  he 
wrote.  If  the  artists  saw  that  he  had  the  eye  and 
almost  the  hand  of  a  painter,  the  literary  critics  felt 
that  he  had  the  soul  of  a  poet. 

It  was  early  in  1872,  when  the  success  of  his  new 
story  had  been  established,  that  Black  left  his  little 
house  in  Catherine  Terrace  for  a  residence  of  great- 
er pretensions  in  Camberwell  Grove,  called  Airlie 
House.  Here  he  established  himself  in  the  midst  of 
surroundings  which  at  the  time  were  almost  rural 
in  their  character.  He  had  a  great  house-warming 
party  in  the  characteristic  Scotch  fashion,  and  he 
invited  his  friends  from  far  and  near  to  celebrate 
the  occasion. 

'Yes,"  he  writes  (March  14,  1872)  to  Mrs.  Kroeker, 
"  we  shall  be  comparative,  or  even  superlative,  neigh- 

99 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

bors,  and  you,  being  a  lady,  will  be  as  positive,  I 
suppose,  as  circumstances  require.  I  hope  you 
will  be  able  to  induce  Mr.  Kroeker  to  bring  you  over 
to  our  'house-warming' — an  ancient  and  venerable 
Scotch  institution,  which  begins  at  nine  with  the 
drinking  of  whiskey,  is  continued  through  ten, 
eleven,  and  twelve  with  the  drinking  of  whiskey, 
and  ends  at  three  in  the  morning  with  the  drinking 
of  whiskey  and  the  singing  of  '  Auld  Lang  Syne. ' 
I  think  we  shall  be  ready  to  contemplate  that  cli- 
max in  about  three  weeks." 

A  month  later  he  writes  to  the  same  lady,  the 
date  of  the  party  having  been  fixed,  "  Whiskey  will 
be  on  the  table  at  9.30.  Could  you  persuade  Mr. 
Kroeker  to  bring  up  'Prinz  Eugen/  and  let  a  de- 
generate English  race  hear  what  a  soldier's  song  is? 
If  you  can  get  a  train  to  Denmark  Hill  Station,  you 
will  find  this  place  the  second  thoroughfare  east  of 
the  station." 

Mr.  Wilson,  who  afterwards  bought  Airlie  House 
from  Black  when  he  gave  up  a  permanent  residence 
in  London,  writes  as  follows : 

In  1872,  when  Black  settled  at  Airlie  House  with  his 
mother,  he  had  a  house-warming  party,  at  which  his  health 
was  proposed  by  Mr.  Alexander  Macmillan,  the  publisher. 
To  Black  the  neighborhood,  then  unspoiled  by  the  builder's 
"  effacing  fingers,"  had  an  old-world  charm.  The  fine 
old  trees,  the  quaint  houses  and  cottages,  the  relics  of 
the  time  of  which  there  is  an  interesting  record  in  Ruskin's 
Praeterita,  when  Denmark  Hill,  Camberwell  Grove,  and 
Dulwich  might  be  called  rural  rather  than  suburban; 
the  irregular  open  spaces,  and  the  comparative  absence 

loo 


ENGAGEMENT   WITH    MISS    SIMPSON 

of  traffic,  pleased  him.  He  liked  to  show  his  guest  the 
splendor  of  a  sunset  in  Grove  Park,  or  the  moonlight  of 
early  summer  shining  upon  the  fine  chestnuts  of  the  Grove. 
But  it  is  rather  difficult  now  to  recognize  the  scenes  he 
painted  in  Madcap  Violet.  In  later  years  I  often  spoke 
to  him  about  the  changes  that  had  passed  over  the  place 
since  we  knew  it  first.  He  winced  at  the  thought  of  seeing 
it  in  its  altered  state,  and  after  he  left  Airlie  House,  at 
the  end  of  1878,  when  I  took  over  the  lease  from  him,  I 
was  not  often  able  to  induce  him  to  pay  his  old  home  a 
visit.  Yet  he  always  had  an  interest  in  the  house  where 
the  early  years  of  his  happy  married  life  were  spent,  and 
where  his  surviving  children  were  born. 

One  of  Black's  fellow-members  at  the  Whitefriars 
Club  was  Mr.  Wharton  Simpson,  a  journalist  like 
himself,  though  connected  with  the  scientific  and 
technical  portion  of  the  press.  In  1869  Black  first 
met  Mr.  Wharton  Simpson's  only  child,  Eva.  He 
did  not  see  her  again  until  the  beginning  of  1872, 
when  he  was  writing  the  early  chapters  of  The  Phae- 
ton. He  met  Mr.  Simpson  and  his  daughter  in 
Oban — a  place  which  for  the  rest  of  his  life  was  very 
dear  to  him.  He  travelled  with  them  for  some  time, 
and  before  the  summer  was  over  he  and  Miss  Simp- 
son were  engaged  to  be  married.  It  was  no  secret 
to  his  friends — and  Black  himself,  laying  aside  his 
usual  reticence,  freely  admitted  it — that  Miss  Simp- 
son had  suggested  to  him  the  character  of  Bell,  the 
heroine  of  The  Phaeton.  This  was  the  wife  whom 
he  chose  for  himself  in  the  maturity  of  his  powers 
and  the  full  flush  of  his  newly  acquired  fame.  When 
I  have  said  where  Black's  own  sketch  of  the  char- 

101 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

acter  of  the  woman  who  was  his  helpmeet  and  com- 
panion, his  constant  friend  and  mainstay  and  com- 
forter for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  is  to  be  found,  I 
have  said  enough  with  regard  to  one  whose  union 
with  Black  was  in  every  sense  of  the  word  "the 
marriage  of  true  minds." 

In  the  early  summer  of  1872  Black  went  up  to 
the  Highlands  to  study  the  scenery  for  his  next 
story,  A  Princess  of  Thule.  His  companions  dur- 
ing part  of  the  journey  were  Mr.  Wharton  Simpson 
and  his  daughter. 


To  Mrs.  Kroeker. 

Imperial  Hotel,  Glasgow, 

Wednesday  (1872). 

MY  DEAR  Mrs.  KROEKER, — Look  at  that!  I  am  on 
my  way  to  Ultima  Thule,  and  if  you  sometimes  suffer 
from  the  sea,  you  will  be  pleased  to  learn  that  I  have  a 
seventeen  hours'  voyage  by  sea  just  staring  me  in  the  face. 
I  am  bound  for  the  Butt  of  Lewis  in  the  Outer  Hebrides, 
and  if  ever  I  come  back  you  shall  all  be  told  of  my  experi- 
ences in  that  land  of  rain  and  desolation.  I  should  have 
been  otherwise  very  glad  indeed  to  have  accepted  your 
kind  invitation,  and  to  have  made  use  of  it  to  impress  on 
your  husband  that  the  man  who  would  lift  his  hand 
against  a  woman — I  mean  who  would  limit  her  to  four 
dresses  on  going  abroad — deserves  what  he  is  very  like- 
ly to  get.  Pray  convey  my  compliments  to  him  all  the 
same. 

Bon  voyage  to  both  of  you. 

Faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 
102 


A    DEDICATION 

To  the  same. 

"Daily  News"  Office, 

October  2,  1872. 
MY  DEAR  MRS.  Kroeker—  I  have  indeed  something 
to  tell  you.  .  .  .  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  person  called 
Bell?  That's  her.  While  I  was  in  Scotland  she  and  her 
papa  came  up  to  Edinburgh,  and  I  undertook  to  escort 
them  through  the  country,  and  she  had  sprained  her  foot, 
and  so  we  merely  continued  the  adventures  of  a  phaeton 
until  they  reached  this  very  strange  and  curious  climax. 
Did  I  point  out  Bell  to  you  at  Denmark  Hill?  She  was 
there,  at  all  events,  but  I  hope  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
presenting  her  to  you  more  personally.  But  she  is  very 
shy  as  yet,  and  a  little  frightened  at  meeting  any  of  my 
friends.  But  it  is  strange  how  folks  get  accustomed  to 
such  things.     Now! — that  is  what  I  have  to  tell  you.  .  .  . 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

The  2d  of  October,  on  which  the  above  letter  was 
written,  wras,  as  it  happened,  Miss  Simpson's  birth- 
day. Black  had  pushed  on  the  completion  of  The 
Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton  in  order  that  it 
might  be  ready  for  publication  in  three-volume  form 
upon  that  clay;  and,  in  spite  of  those  delays  of  the 
printers  which  are  even  more  vexatious  and  per- 
sistent than  the  delays  of  the  law,  he  was  fortunate 
enough  to  be  able  to  send  his  betrothed  a  copy  of 
the  book  on  her  birthday.  It  contained  the  follow- 
ing epistle  dedicatory : 

To  E.  W.  S. — I  look  back  on  a  journey  which  was  made 
pleasant  by  the  fancy  that  you  might  have  been  with  me. 
I  look  forward  to  another  and  longer  journey  rendered 

103 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

beautiful  by  the  hope  that  you  may  be  with  me,  and  I  find 
this  book  between.  What  can  I  do  with  it  but  lay  it  at 
your  feet,  and  ask  you,  as  you  look  over  its  pages,  and 
smile  at  the  distorted  vision  of  yourself  you  may  find  there, 
to  forgive  the  rude  and  graceless  outlines  that  were  meant 
to  portray  one  of  the  most  innocent,  tender,  and  beautiful 
souls  God  has  ever  given  to  the  world.  The  blind  man, 
who  has  never  seen  the  stars,  dreams  of  them,  and  is  happy. 
And  if  he  should  be  cured  of  his  blindness,  and  get  to  know 
the  stars,  and  become  familiar  with  all  the  majesty  and 
wonder  of  them,  will  he  look  with  much  contempt  on  those 
imperfect  pictures  of  them  he  had  formed  in  the  time  of 
his  loneliness  and  ignorance?  I  think  not;  and  that  is 
the  excuse  I  have  for  offering  to  you  this  book,  knowing 
that  you  will  look  charitably  on  these  gropings  in  the 
dark,  for  the  sake  of  the  love  and  admiration  that  prompted 
them. 

I  have  said  that  the  purpose  of  his  visit  to  the 
north  of  Scotland  was  to  study  the  scenery  of  the 
Hebrides,  in  order  to  introduce  it  into  the  novel  he  now 
had  in  view.  He  stayed  at  the  Garranahina  Inn, 
in  the  island  of  Lewis,  and  studied  the  scenery  and 
the  varying  effects  of  sunshine  and  cloud  with  the 
care  and  minuteness  that  distinguished  him  as  an 
observer  of  nature.  He  went  fishing,  too,  on  Loch 
Roag,  and  here  caught  his  first  salmon — a  notable 
event  in  the  life  of  a  man  who  for  many  subse- 
quent years  devoted  a  considerable  portion  of  his 
time  to  this  sport.  As  I  have  mentioned  Garra- 
nahina Inn,  I  may  at  this  point  touch  upon  the  story 
that  the  innkeeper  and  his  daughter  were  the  pro- 
totypes of  the  King  of  Borva  and  Sheila  in  the  Prin- 
cess.    This  was  a  story  widely  circulated  during 

104 


A    FICTITIOUS    HEROINE 

Black's  lifetime,  and  repeated  even  after  his  death. 
It  probably  originated  at  the  time  when  A  Princess 
of  Thule  was  at  the  height  of  its  popularity,  with 
some  foolish  tourist  who,  having  visited  Garra- 
nahina  and  learned  that  Black  had  stayed  there, 
jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  not  only  in- 
troduced the  scenery  of  the  place  into  his  story,  but 
adopted  the  landlord  and  his  daughter  as  the  two 
chief  characters  of  the  book.  This  statement,  suf- 
ficiently ridiculous  on  the  face  of  it,  was  absolutely 
unfounded.  More  than  once  in  later  years  Black's 
friends  have  heard  him  refer  to  it  with  anger  and 
contempt.  It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  dwell 
upon  this  idle  fable  further.  If  it  had  not  obtained 
currency  in  those  newspapers  which  delight  to  sup- 
ply personal  gossip  about  celebrities  to  their  readers, 
it  would  not  have  been  mentioned  here.  But  as  the 
tale  found  wide  acceptance  at  one  time,  it  is  only 
just  to  Black  himself  that  his  indignant  repudiation 
of  it  should  be  put  on  record.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
there  was  never  any  doubt  among  his  friends  and 
intimates  that  if  there  were  any  living  prototype  of 
the  delightful  princess  she  was  to  be  found  in  the 
lady  who  had  also  been  his  model  for  the  heroine 
of  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton.  She  was 
certainly  not  the  young  woman  whom  Black  only 
remembered  as  having  once  or  twice  waited  upon 
him  at  table. 

It  is  one  of  the  drawbacks  to  such  a  celebrity  as 
that  which  Black  had  gained,  that  all  manner  of 
myths  are  woven  around  the  name  of  its  possessor. 
Like  other  men  who  have  suddenly  been  raised  to 

105 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

a  place  of  eminence,  he  had  to  discover  for  himself 
the  thorns  from  which  no  laurel  crown  is  wholly 
free.  The  idle  gossips  of  the  newspapers  now  began 
to  make  free  with  his  name  in  a  fashion  that  he 
hotly  resented.  One  of  these  writers  of  vague  and 
vulgar  personalities,  for  example,  described  him 
as  coming  into  some  West  End  drawing-room  at- 
tired in  "faultless  evening  dress";  and  he  was  so 
angry  at  the  impertinence  that  he  positively  wrote 
to  the  Athenaeum  (if  I  remember  aright)  in  order  to 
protest  against  it.  Hitherto  he  had  enjoyed  the 
freedom  of  comparative  obscurity.  Now  he  had 
fallen  a  prey  to  the  parasites  who  fasten  upon  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  notoriety.  The  phase  of  mod- 
ern journalism  which  is  represented  by  the  pub- 
lication of  the  private  affairs  of  living  persons  he 
regarded  with  the  utmost  detestation.  A  journalist 
himself,  he  had  high  views  both  of  the  dignity  and 
the  responsibilities  of  the  press.  It  was  in  no  small 
part  owing  to  what  he  regarded  as  the  deterioration 
of  the  press  that  he  gradually  withdrew  himself 
from  the  society  of  journalists.  His  old  friends, 
it  is  true,  always  remained  the  same  to  him;  but 
even  before  he  gave  up  his  connection  with  the  daily 
press  he  had  ceased  to  be  a  frequenter  of  newspaper 
circles.  It  was  not  only  the  intrusions  of  newspaper 
reporters  into  his  private  life,  however,  that  brought 
home  to  him  the  penalties  of  notoriety.  He  had 
one  experience,  at  least,  that  was  as  extraordinary 
as  it  was  annoying.  Among  the  many  fictions  re- 
garding his  early  life  that  began  to  appear  in  cer- 
tain newspapers  in  Great  Britain  and  the  United 

106 


A    CURIOUS    EPISODE 

States  was  one  to  the  effect  that  he  was  an  orphan 
of  very  humble  parentage,  whose  only  living  rela- 
tive was  an  aunt,  whom  with  great  heartlessness 
he  had  deserted  and  left  to  an  old  age  of  bitter  pov- 
erty. It  was  vexing  enough  that  such  a  fiction  as 
this  should  have  found  admission  to  the  columns 
of  even  the  most  reckless  of  newspapers.  Matters 
became  worse,  however,  when  Black  found  that 
there  really  was  a  woman  who  claimed  him  as  her 
long  -  lost  nephew,  and  who  insisted  that  he  had 
basely  deserted  her!  This  curious  person,  who  it 
may  charitably  be  assumed  was  suffering  from  senile 
dementia,  began  to  pursue  him  with  letters  addressed 
to  him  as  "  Neil  McVean,  alias  William  Black."  Her 
contention  was  that  he  was  a  nephew  of  hers,  who 
had  been  born  in  1848,  when  Black  was  seven  years 
of  age,  and  who,  having  gone  to  sea,  had  disap- 
peared from  his  aunt's  sight,  apparently  forever. 
So  lar  as  can  be  ascertained  from  a  study  of  the 
rambling  and  incoherent  epistles  which  this  person 
from  time  to  time  inflicted  upon  Black,  it  was  some 
fancied  similarity  between  some  situation  in  A  Daugh- 
ter of  Heth  and  certain  adventures  in  which  her 
nephew  had  been  involved  that  led  her  to  claim  the 
unfortunate  author  as  the  lost  nephew  himself. 
Black's  temperament  did  not  enable  him  to  bear 
this  annoyance  calmly.  His  sensitiveness  made 
him  feel  the  falsehoods  that  were  hurled  against 
him,  whether  in  malice  or  thoughtlessness,  very 
keenly,  and  this  wretched  old  woman  in  Glasgow, 
who,  without  a  shadow  of  reason,  haunted  the 
Herald  office  in  order  to  proclaim  the  wrongs  she 

107 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

had  suffered  from  an  ungrateful  nephew,  and  eagerly 
poured  her  tale  of  woe  into  every  willing  ear,  caused 
him  not  a  little  pain.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  send 
a  Glasgow  friend,  accompanied  by  a  solicitor,  to  the 
old  woman's  house  in  order  that  they  might  con- 
vince her  of  the  absurdity  of  her  strange  tale.  It 
was  of  no  use,  however.  The  only  consequence  of 
this  step  was  that  Barbara  McVean  addressed  an- 
other letter  to  Black  in  which,  referring  to  the  visit 
that  his  representatives  had  paid  to  her,  she  piously 
remarked :  "  I  think  the  Lord  was  kind  when  He 
did  not  strake  them,  speaking  lies  in  hypocrisy, 
saying  you  were  born  in  Glasgow."  It  was  all 
very  absurd.  Probably  a  man  less  finely  strung 
than  Black,  and  with  less  of  the  peculiar  tempera- 
ment of  genius,  would  have  seen  nothing  but  the 
absurd  side  of  the  affair.  But  a  man  who  could 
have  done  this  would  not  have  been  the  William 
Black  whose  keen  sensitiveness  made  him  so  suscep- 
tible to  all  external  influences.  Happily,  in  course 
of  time  this  particular  annoyance  ceased,  and  Black 
was  freed  from  the  undesired  affections  and  angry 
reproaches  of  this  very  remarkable  old  lady. 

The  sweets,  as  well  as  the  bitters,  of  fame  fell  to 
his  lot,  however.  No  sooner  had  A  Daughter  of 
Heth  caught  the  ear  of  the  public  than  its  author 
began  to  receive,  almost  by  each  day's  post,  letters 
from  strangers  which  showed  how  deeply  he  had 
moved  them.  The  mere  autograph  hunters  need 
not  be  reckoned;  but  many  of  these  unknown  cor- 
respondents of  Black's  clearly  wrote  under  the  in- 
fluence  of   strong    emotion.     Their   letters    showed 

108 


MRS.    KROEKER'S    REMINISCENCES 

that  he  had  touched  their  hearts.  All  through  his 
life,  after  the  story  of  Coquette  had  been  told,  both 
men  and  women  wrote  to  him  constantly,  as  one 
writes  to  a  trusted  friend  and  teacher.  Some  of 
these  letters  I  shall  print  in  due  course  in  this  nar- 
rative. Here  I  may  interpolate  some  personal  rem- 
iniscences from  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Kroeker,  which  con- 
tain one  of  the  many  communications  he  received 
from  friends  and  admirers  after  the  publication  of 
A  Daughter  of  Heth : 

My  husband  and  1  first  met  Mr.  William  Black  in  the 
summer  of  1870,  at  the  hospitable  house  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Justin  McCarthy.  Every  Saturday  evening  there  was  a 
large  and  interesting  gathering  of  literarj-  men  and  women, 
artists  and  journalists,  in  the  fine  old  house  in  Gower  Street, 
where  our  friends  were  then  living.  The  Franco-German 
War  had  broken  out,  and  excitement  was  running  very 
high.  Our  genial  host  introduced  Mr.  Black,  having  first 
informed  me  that  he  was  a  rising  young  novelist,  whose 
In  Silk  Attire  and  Kilmeny  I  should  do  well  to  read.  I 
soon  followed  this  advice,  thereby  laying  the  foundation 
of  a  genuine  and  increasing  admiration  for  the  works  of 
the  gifted  writer  who  has  passed  from  us  all  too  soon.  In 
the  autumn  of  the  same  year  we  invited  Mr.  Black  to  our 
house,  to  which  he  readily  responded,  often  bringing  with 
him  his  intimate  friend,  Mr.  William  Barry.  Mr.  Black 
was  always  genial,  bright,  witty,  and  of  that  peculiar 
humor  of  his  own  which  his  friends  knew  so  well  as  a  dis- 
tinguishing trait.  His  sympathies  were  at  that  time 
German,  and  of  course  that  was  a  bond  between  us,  as 
no  less  his  love  and  admiration  of  German  folk  -  song, 
which  was  very  remarkable.  Often  I  would  have  to  sing 
him  some  simple   Volkslied,  repeating  it  at  his  request, 

109 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

and  particularly  fond  was  he  of  Silcher's  grand  setting  of 
"  The  King  of  Thule,"  which  my  husband  often  sang  to  him. 
This  love  of  folk-songs  was  very  characteristic  of  the  novel- 
ist, who  subtly  evolved  the  national  spirit,  as  it  were,  from 
the  songs  of  the  people.  After  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Simpson,  who  sang  old  English  songs  most  sweetly  and 
with  rare  expression,  I  heard  for  the  first  time  the  old  Eng- 
lish ballads  of  "  Barbara  Allen,"  "  The  Bailiff's  Daughter 
of  Islington,"  and  "  By  Woodstock  Town,"  all  familiar 
to  me  from  Goldsmith  and  Percy's  Reliques,  but  never 
sung  to  me  before.  Mr.  Black  would  stand  beside  the 
piano,  or  perhaps  a  little  back  away  from  the  singer,  lis- 
tening gravely,  and  when  the  song  was  over  he  begged 
for  another  and  another,  until,  laughing,  Miss  Simpson 
would  shut  up  the  book.  Later  on  again,  the  Celtic  and 
Highland  songs  interested  him,  and  he  was  always  anx- 
ious to  hear  them  sung  and  played.  I  remember  once, 
when  we  were  staying  at  Brighton  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Black,  years  later,  that  he  asked  me  to  play  some  very 
old  Celtic  melodies  which  he  had  just  acquired,  and  how 
sorry  I  was  to  be  unable  to  make  anything  of  them,  rhythm 
and  tune  being  so  utterly  unlike  anything  I  had  ever  heard 
before.  I  told  him  that  it  would  require  a  Highland  singer 
to  do  justice  to  these  songs.  For  classical  music  he  did 
not  care  at  all,  I  fancy ;  and  once,  I  recollect,  when  he  and 
Mr.  and  Miss  Simpson  met  me  at  the  Crystal  Palace,  where 
the  Saturday  concert  contained  Beethoven's  big  Sym- 
phony in  A,  Mr.  Black  left  us  at  the  commencement,  wish- 
ing us  joy  with  his  whimsical  gravity,  and  saying  it  be- 
hooved him  to  smoke  a  cigar,  whereupon  he  disappeared, 
only  coming  in  as  the  last  chords  were  played. 

William  Black  had  a  great  admiration  for  my  father 
as  a  poet,  and  when  my  parents  were  staying  with  me 
in  the  summer  of  1873  Mr.  Black,  who  was  then  living 
at  Airlie  House,  in  Denmark  Hill,  invited  us  to  dine  with 

1 10 


HIS     KNOWLEDGE     OF     BOTANY 

him.  His  old  mother  finely  did  the  honors  of  the  table, 
assisted  by  his  sister,  Mrs.  "  Titania  "  Morten,  who  had 
driven  over  from  Banstead.  Miss  Simpson  and  her  father 
were  of  the  party,  as  well  as  Mr.  Barry.  We  had  one  of 
the  usual  genial  Denmark  Hill  evenings,  which  has  al- 
ways remained  vividly  in  my  memory.  Some  years  later 
we  were  staying  the  night  at  Banstead  with  our  friends 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morten,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Black  being  of  the 
house-party  as  well.  As  it  happened,  I  had  to  leave  the 
next  morning  and  go  straight  up  to  London  to  catch  a  train 
for  the  North.  Mr.  Black  had  to  go  up  to  London  by  the 
same  train,  and  he  kindly  took  care  of  me.  Having  pro- 
vided me  with  papers,  we  settled  down  to  read,  when,  sud- 
denly looking  up,  I  saw  the  embankments  through  which 
we  were  running  fairly  ablaze  with  the  coltsfoot — thou- 
sands upon  thousands  of  flaming  little  suns!  It  was  a 
brilliantly  sunny  day  in  early  spring,  and  the  sight  was 
so  inexpressibly  beautiful  that  I  uttered  a  little  cry  of  de- 
light. In  a  moment  Mr.  Black  had  thrown  down  his  paper 
and  was  eagerly  looking  out,  too,  and  then  he  began  talk- 
ing of  wild  flowers  here  and  in  Scotland,  telling  me,  among 
other  things,  that  the  coltsfoot  was  used  in  Scotland  for 
brewing,  and  altogether  launching  forth  into  a  perfectly 
delightful  botanical  discourse.  I  was  aware  that  botany 
had  been  a  favorite  subject  of  his,  and  one  in  which  he  had 
excelled ;  for,  on  the  occasion  of  our  first  visit  to  Airlie 
House,  his  old  mother  had  proudly  shown  me  "  William's  " 
diploma  for  botany,  obtained  when  he  was  a  student  in 
Glasgow.  But  never  had  Mr.  Black  so  much  as  alluded 
to  this  special  study  before  in  my  presence,  or  even  let  it 
be  inferred  that  he  was  in  the  least  degree  interested  in 
it.  I  think  that  all  who  knew  the  man  well  will  recognize 
this  very  characteristic  trait.  In  the  course  of  our  con- 
versation on  flowers  on  this  occasion,  I  still  remember 
his  saying  that  never  had  he  seen  primroses  of  such  size 

III 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

and  beauty  as  those  he  had  met  with  in  the  lanes  of 
Cornwall. 

As  is  well  known,  Mr.  Black's  power  of  repartee  was 
very  considerable  and  amusing.  Of  several  instances  I 
remember,  one  may  find  a  place  here.  He  had  just  brought 
out  his  Daughter  of  Heth  anonymously  and  with  great 
success.  I  had  been  reading  it,  together  with  a  dear  friend, 
and  we  both  shed  copious  tears  over  the  beautiful  story. 
The  idea  then  occurred  to  me  to  send  the  following  lines  to 
'  W.  B.,"  which  my  friend,  who  was  a  very  pretty  draughts- 
woman, illustrated  with  a  row  of  little  bottles,  neatly  labelled 
with  the  respective  names  of  his  novels,  A  Daughter  of 
Heth,  of  course,  occupying  the  place  of  honor.  I  sent  off 
this  genuine  little  tribute  of  my  homage,  and,  as  the  14th 
of  February  was  at  hand,  entitled  it: 

Valentine  to  W.  B. 

In  these  bottles  you  behold 
Essence  rarer  far  than  gold, 
Better  than  famed  elixirs, 
Women's  heartfelt,  genuine  tears! 
Take  them  not  amiss  I  pray, 
On  this  mad  and  merry  day! 
They  are  tear-drops  bright  and  true 
Shed  o'er  pages  writ  by  you. 
Even  now  my  lashes  wet 
Pay  tribute  to  the  sweet  Coquette; 
And  a  friend  I  went  to  see 
I  found  weeping  bitterly. 
Query,  with  abated  breath — 
Answer,  "  Oh,  that  Daughter  of  Heth  " : 
While  another  shower  bright 
Volume  three  was  spoiling  quite. 
So  I  culled  this  bright  salt  dew 
From  the  truest  of  the  true; 
112 


"A     PRINCESS     OF     THULE" 

Had  them  bottled  with  a  few 

Of  some  other  people's,  too. 

Here  they  are!     Let  them  thank  you! 

Within  a  few  hours  I  received  William  Black's  charac- 
teristic answer.  It  consisted  simply  of  Tennyson's  song, 
"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they 
MEAN,"  the  title  being  doubly  underlined. 

A  Princess  of  Thule  followed  The  Strange  Ad- 
ventures of  a  Phaeton  in  Macmillan's  Magazine. 
The  former  book,  when  it  appeared  in  its  two-vol- 
ume form,  was  received  by  the  critics  in  a  way  that 
proved  that  the  reputation  won  by  Black  from  A 
Daughter  of  Heth  was  not  a  fleeting  one.  Though 
some  regretted  that  he  had  not  adhered  to  the  line 
of  regular  romance,  and  that  he  had  given  an  un- 
conventional and  unusual  form  to  his  story,  every- 
body acknowledged  the  freshness  and  charm  of 
his  style,  the  beauty  of  his  descriptive  passages, 
and  the  amazing  power  and  grace  of  his  portrai- 
ture of  Bell  and  Queen  Tita.  In  short,  the  Phaeton 
raised  still  higher  a  reputation  which  A  Daughter 
of  Heth  had  already  placed  upon  a  pinnacle  of  fame. 
But  even  his  friends  and  admirers  were  unprepared 
for  Black's  next  step  forward.  No  sooner  did  the 
first  instalment  of  A  Princess  of  Thule  appear  in 
the  magazine  than  a  chorus  of  praise  and  appre- 
ciation went  up  alike  from  critics  and  public.  No 
doubt,  in  part  the  instantaneous  success  of  the  story 
was  due  to  the  fact  that  the  author  had  seized  upon 
virgin  soil.  The  Scotland  known  to  literature  be- 
fore that  day  was  the  Scotland  of  Burns  and  Scott, 
s  113 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

of  Gait  and  Aytoun.  Scott  had  ventured  once  or 
twice  into  the  Highlands,  and  had  painted  with  the 
splendid  vigor  of  his  master-hand  a  few  patches  of 
Highland  scenery;  but  for  the  most  part  he  had 
preferred  the  haunts  of  men;  and  the  wonderful 
Hebridean  isles,  the  cloud-capped  heights  of  Ben 
Nevis  and  Ben  Macdhui,  the  volcanic  peaks  of  the 
Cuchullins,  and  the  glowing  colors  of  sea,  sky,  and 
heather  on  the  western  coast,  had  remained  un- 
touched by  any  writer  of  distinction.  Black,  with 
his  artist's  eye  and  poet's  soul,  and  with  the  Celtic 
fervor  that  made  him  kin  to  the  people  of  this  un- 
known Thule,  felt  that  here  was  a  land  of  romance 
waiting  to  reveal  its  treasures  to  the  world.  He 
could  never  have  made  those  treasures  known  to 
his  readers  if  he  had  not  first  possessed  them  for 
himself.  His  visit  to  the  island  of  Lewis  was  in 
itself  a  revelation  to  him.  Thousands  had  been 
there  before  him,  but  if  any  had  discerned  the  gla- 
mour and  the  witchery  of  those  wonderful  northern 
seas  and  rocks,  they  had  not  possessed  the  art  of  tell- 
ing others  that  which  they  had  discovered  for  them- 
selves. With  Black  the  case  was  different.  The 
spell  of  the  North  fell  upon  his  soul,  never  to  be  re- 
moved. In  the  dull  days  of  his  boyhood  in  the  Tron- 
gate  he  had  dreamed  dreams  of  beauty;  but  Arran 
or  Loch  Lomond  were  the  farthest  points  to  which 
he  had  penetrated  in  the  search  for  the  reality.  Now 
he  found  among  these  western  seas  and  islands  the 
full  realization  of  the  visions  of  his  youth.  The  im- 
pression made  upon  him  by  his  first  acquaintance 
with  that  wonderful  district  of  which,  in  the  realm 

114 


THE  BEAUTY  OF  THE  HEBRIDES 

of  letters,  he  is  now  the  king,  was  so  deep  that  I 
cannot  attempt  to  convey  it  to  my  readers.  It  was 
doubtless  the  Celtic  blood  in  his  veins,  the  tempera- 
ment inherited  from  a  long  line  of  Highland  an- 
cestors, that  made  him  so  keenly  susceptible,  not 
merely  to  the  outward  beauty,  but  to  the  inner  spirit 
of  the  new  land  into  which  he  had  ventured.  The 
beauty  filled  his  soul  with  joy  and  the  spirit  became 
a  part  of  himself.  Little  wonder  that  when  he  first 
essayed  to  bring  these  things  home  to  the  reading 
world  of  London,  he  produced  upon  intelligent  minds 
an  impression  almost  as  deep  as  that  which  the  High- 
lands themselves  had  made  upon  himself.  Many 
can  still  remember  the  sudden  awakening  of  their 
minds  to  new  impressions  and  a  new  sense  of  beauty 
which  followed  the  perusal  of  the  earlier  chapters 
of  A  Princess  of  Thule.  It  was  as  though  the  wand 
of  a  magician  had  touched  the  clouds  of  mist  which 
had  so  long  brooded  heavily  above  that  northwest- 
ern corner  of  our  land,  causing  them  to  roll  aside 
and  to  reveal  the  enchanted  isles  which  lay  beyond 
them.  No  writer  of  his  day  but  Black  could  have 
painted  that  land  with  the  glowing  colors  and  brill- 
iancy of  touch  which  he  had  at  his  command.  But 
even  Black,  with  all  his  skill,  could  never  have  made 
those  scenes  in  the  western  islands  become  glowing 
and  living  realities  to  thousands  of  readers  scat- 
tered throughout  the  world  if  he  had  not  himself 
been  possessed  by  a  feeling  of  intense  love,  almost 
amounting  to  one  of  worship,  for  the  land  of  which 
he  wrote.  It  was  with  an  absorbing,  breathless 
interest  that  the  readers  of  Macmillan's  Magazine 

115 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

in  1873  drank  in  his  wonderful  descriptions  of  this 
new  territory — old  as  the  hills  itself,  but  new  to  the 
pages  of  our  literature.  By  universal  consent,  the 
triumphs  of  his  two  previous  books  were  eclipsed 
by  this  supreme  success,  and  the  success  was  the 
more  readily  and  fully  recognized  because  all  could 
see  that  it  was  due  to  no  skilful  trick  of  literary 
craftsmanship,  but  to  the  love  and  enthusiasm 
which  possessed  the  soul  of  the  writer,  and  inspired 
and  animated  his  pen. 

And  then,  to  this  striking  and  almost  unparal- 
leled triumph  in  descriptive  writing,  Black's  friends 
quickly  found  that  there  was  added  another  tri- 
umph hardly  less  startling.  In  Coquette  and  Bell 
he  had  painted  for  us  two  portraits  that  it  seemed 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  surpass.  In  their  grace, 
their  freshness,  their  fulness  of  life,  their  delicacy 
of  shade  and  mood,  they  stood  on  the  highest  plane 
of  English  fiction.  But  now  to  these  two  fascinat- 
ing portraits  was  added  a  third,  which  in  its  subtle 
charm  surpassed  them  both,  and  the  whole  read- 
ing world  succumbed  as  with  one  accord  to  the  in- 
imitable Sheila.  A  Princess  of  Thule  was  no  mere 
tour  de  force.  It  was,  rather,  the  masterpiece  of  a 
workman  who  had  toiled  hard  at  his  vocation,  and 
who  had  concentrated  all  his  powers  and  all  the 
technical  skill  that  he  had  acquired  upon  the  effort. 
But  even  then,  I  repeat,  it  would  not  have  won  as 
it  did  the  instantaneous  recognition  and  homage  of 
readers  all  over  the  world  if  it  had  not  been  that  the 
artist's  soul  was  in  his  work,  and  that  he  put  into 
it  his  own  deepest  emotions,  and  the  love  and  en- 

116 


LITERARY    LION    OF    THE    SEASON 

thusiasm  which  were  only  revealed  fully  and  truly 
in  those  pages  in  which  he  gave  us  of  his  best.  There 
had  never  really  been  any  doubt  as  to  Black's  suc- 
cess as  a  novelist  after  the  appearance  of  A  Daugh- 
ter of  Heth,  for  that  delightful  book  proved  conclu- 
sively that  he  had  the  root  of  the  matter  in  him. 
But  it  was  one  thing  to  achieve  a  brilliant  success 
in  literature  and  then  to  produce  work  not  palpably 
inferior  to  it,  and  quite  another  thing  to  advance 
from  such  a  success  as  A  Daughter  of  Heth  to  the 
brilliant  and  in  some  ways  astounding  triumph  of 
A  Princess  of  Thule.  Black's  friends  looked  on 
with  almost  as  much  wonder  as  admiration  at  this 
remarkable  development  of  his  powers,  while  the 
critics  with  one  accord  admitted  that  the  new  writer 
was  no  fleeting  meteor  in  the  firmament  of  letters, 
but  one  who  had  unmistakably  "come  to  stay." 

In  this  year  1873  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that 
there  was  in  England  no  more  popular  writer  than 
Black.  He  was  the  literary  lion  of  the  season.  As 
everybody  was  reading  A  Princess  of  Thule,  so 
everybody  was  talking  about  its  author.  His  pres- 
ence was  eagerly  sought  for  by  society,  and  almost 
every  door  was  opened  to  him.  Some  of  us  can 
recall  him  as  he  appeared  at  some  gathering  in 
the  great  world  of  fashion  at  that  date — a  slightly 
built,  reserved,  silent  man,  who  watched  everything 
through  his  gleaming  glasses,  but  who  spoke  little, 
and  never  gave  to  the  casual  interlocutor  the  slight- 
est glimpse  of  the  genius  and  passion  which  all 
admitted  that  the  author  of  A  Princess  of  Thule 
must  possess.     It  was  not  in  companies  of  this  de- 

117 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

scription  that  Black  ever  shone.  No  stranger  could 
ever  judge  him  rightly,  and  one  could  well  imag- 
ine that  the  impression  he  produced  upon  those 
who,  for  the  moment,  worshipped  him  as  the  lion 
of  the  hour,  was  one  of  disappointment.  He  came 
back  from  the  great  world  to  his  own  house  and  his 
own  friends  with  an  unfeigned  sense  of  relief,  but 
his  silent  excursions  into  society  were  not  unfruitful 
in  themselves.  His  wonderful  faculty  of  observa- 
tion served  him  as  well  in  the  palaces  of  Mayfair 
as  among  the  islands  of  the  Hebrides,  and  in  his 
later  novels  his  friends  could  discover  many  touches, 
many  brilliant  descriptions  of  social  life,  that  orig- 
inated in  hours  that  he  had  spent  in  the  flush  of 
his  fame  and  popularity  in  drawing-rooms  where 
he  had  figured  as  the  silent  and  seemingly  self- 
absorbed  lion  of  the  evening. 

He  went  to  Switzerland  in  the  autumn  of  1873 
for  the  rest  which  he  needed  after  the  writing  of 
A  Princess  of  Thule.  He  found  the  Swiss  scenery 
by  no  means  so  much  to  his  liking  as  that  of  the 
western  Highlands.  Indeed,  he  remained  true  to 
the  end  to  his  love  for  Scotland.  In  Switzerland 
the  clear  atmosphere  seemed  to  him  to  be  pitiless 
in  its  revelations  of  mountain  summits  and  distant 
valleys.  Both  in  color  and  in  softness  he  preferred 
infinitely  the  Scotch  moors  and  the  misty  islets  of 
the  Minch  to  the  more  striking  grandeur  of  the  Alps. 
He  returned  from  his  holiday  shortly  before  A  Prin- 
cess of  Thule  appeared  in  the  three-volume  form. 
Its  publication  in  that  shape  enabled  the  critics  to 
express  their  appreciation  of  a  work  that  had  al- 

118 


A    DEDICATION    TO     HIS    WIFE 

ready  established  its  fame,   and  his  friends  were 
enthusiastic  in  their  congratulations. 

Black  dedicated  A  Princess  of  Thide  in  the  fol- 
lowing words  to  his  wife : 

It  was  a  still  and  warm  evening  in  June,  and  we  were 
in  a  little  old-fashioned  inn  at  the  foot  of  Box  Hill,  the 
windows  open,  a  mild  west  wind  blowing  through  the 
elms,  the  yellow  sunset  shining  along  the  hills.  A  great 
silence  lay  over  the  valley ;  the  air  was  fragrant  with  various 
scents;  doves  were  calling  in  the  distant  trees.  In  the 
dusky  corner  of  the  room,  where  the  piano  stood,  some 
one  with  a  sweet,  strange  thrill  in  her  voice  was  singing 
of  "Lady  Barnard,"  and  "  Woodstock  Town,"  and  "The 
Bailiff's  Daughter."  And  it  occurred  to  one  of  the  party, 
sitting  at  the  open  window  there,  that  this  story,  although 
it  dealt  with  far  other  scenes,  and  with  people  not  familiar 
to  us  in  the  south,  had  nevertheless  for  its  heroine  a  girl 
who  was  brave  and  bountiful  in  her  love,  who  was  proud 
and  sweet,  and  sensitive  in  all  her  ways,  who  was  generous 
to  the  poor,  true  to  her  friends,  and  loyal  to  her  own  high 
notions  of  womanhood,  and  that  therefore  this  story  might 
well  be  dedicated  as  it  is  now  dedicated, 

LONDON,  November,  1873.       T°  °UR  G°°D  BELLE' 
In  later  years  Black  gave  up  entirely  the  use  of 
dedications ;  except  that  of  his  wife,  the  only  names 
thus  inscribed  in  his  books  are  those  of  his  daughter 
Mabel  and  William  Barry. 

To  Mrs.  Kroeker. 

Pall  Mall  Club, 

Waterloo  Place,  S.  W. 

December  8,  1873. 
DEAR  MRS.  KROEKER,— Thank  you  very  much  indeed 
for  your  most  generous  and  kindly  letter.     If  I  mustat- 

119 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

tribute  much  of  the  praise  in  it  rather  to  your  good-nature 
than  to  your  judgment,  I  am  none  the  less  sure  that  it  is 
honest;  and  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grateful  to  you  I  am 
for  your  ever-ready  and  sympathetic  appreciation.  I  wish 
all  authors  had  such  critics,  and  that  I  had  none  other !  .  .  . 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Pall  Mall  Club,  London. 

My  DEAR  REID, — Let  me  send  you  a  hurried  line  of 
thanks  for  the  very  generous  and  friendly  review  of  A 
Princess  of  Thule  which  you  sent  me.  A  young  person 
to  whom  I  hope  to  introduce  you  some  day  tells  me  that 
of  all  the  reviews  of  The  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton  which 
appeared,  the  one  in  the  Leeds  Mercury  gave  her  most 
pleasure,  and  she  is  of  opinion  that  this  one  is  by  the  same 
friendly  hand.  I  don't  know  how  that  may  be ;  but  any 
way  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you. 

Faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  I  was  able  to  render 
a  small  service  to  Black  which  smoothed  his  path 
for  the  future,  and  enabled  him  to  devote  himself 
more  unreservedly  than  he  had  yet  been  able  to  do 
to  his  work  as  a  writer  of  fiction.  I  offered  him,  on 
behalf  of  the  proprietors  of  the  Leeds  Mercury,  an 
engagement  as  a  contributor  to  that  journal.  He 
had  found  the  work  which  his  position  in  the  office 
of  the  Daily  Neivs  imposed  upon  him  exceedingly 
irksome,  and  the  necessity  of  nightly  attendance 
in  Bouverie  Street  had  become  especially  burden- 
some now  that  he  had  married  and  that  he  had  many 

120 


ILLNESS     OF     WILLIAM     BARRY 

social  engagements  to  meet.  The  prospect  of  se- 
curing his  freedom  from  the  grinding  routine  of  the 
newspaper  office  which  was  afforded  by  my  proposal 
was  very  grateful,  and  though  he  did  not  retire  im- 
mediately from  the  post  of  assistant  editor  of  the 
Daily  News,  u  was  not  long  before  he  did  so.  But 
before  he  would  accept  this  "order  of  relea.se "  from 
the  drudgery  of  night-work  in  the  precincts  of  Fleet 
Street,  he  sought  to  help  his  old  friend  William 
Barry.  The  health  of  the  latter,  who  had  never 
been  strong,  was  failing,  and  he  was  no  longer  able 
to  keep  pace  with  the  demands  that  his  engagements 
made  upon  him.  When  I  first  proposed  to  Black 
that  he  should  undertake  the  light  and  well-remuner- 
ated work  for  the  Leeds  Mercury,  he  jumped  eager- 
ly at  the  idea,  which  meant  freedom  and  increased 
working-power  for  himself.  But  a  moment  later  he 
thought  of  Barry,  and  with  that  complete  absence 
of  selfishness  that  he  could  show  in  face  of  even  se- 
vere temptations,  he  pressed  the  claims  of  his  friend 
upon  me.  Barry  accordingly  became  for  a  season 
the  London  correspondent  of  the  Mercury,  assisted 
by  Black,  who  undertook  to  supplement  his  work. 
The  arrangement  unhappily  did  not  last  as  long  as 
we  could  have  wished.  Barry's  illness  increased, 
and  soon  the  bright  30ung  Irishman,  who  has  left 
tender  memories  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  him, 
was  stretched  upon  his  death-bed.  Then  the  chiv- 
alrous kindliness  of  Black's  nature  asserted  itself. 
He  was  then  in  the  fulness  of  his  career  as  the  most 
popular  novelist  of  the  day,  and  was  able  to  com- 
mand his  own  terms  from  the  publishers,   but  he 

121 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

voluntarily  undertook  to  do  Barry's  work  as  corre- 
spondent of  the  Leeds  Mercury  on  condition  that  the 
latter  continued  to  receive  his  salary.  It  is  only 
the  man  who  has  to  earn  his  living  by  his  pen  who 
can  fully  appreciate  the  magnitude  and  generosity 
of  such  a  service.  It  was  faithfully  carried  out  by 
Black  for  several  months,  while  his  friend  slowly 
faded  from  us.  Very  touching  it  was  during  that 
time  to  visit  the  dying  man  and  to  see  the  wistful 
tenderness  of  his  gaze  when  his  eyes  rested  upon 
Black.  No  one  in  the  outer  world  would  have  be- 
lieved that  the  silent,  self-centred  man,  whose  genius 
men  admired  but  whose  real  spirit  was  a  mystery  to 
them — a  mystery  hidden  behind  a  mask  of  stolid, 
unbroken  reserve — could  inspire  the  love  and  grati- 
tude which  in  those  last  sad  days  shone  upon  Barry's 
face.  Black  successfully  concealed  his  own  emo- 
tions from  those  of  us  who  were  nearest  to  him.  He 
never  lapsed  into  sentimentalism ;  and  so  far  as  his 
speech  revealed  his  feelings  it  might  have  been  sup- 
posed that  Barry's  illness  was  almost  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  him.  It  was  only  his  actions  that 
made  any  revelation  of  the  real  man.  More  than 
once,  when  going  to  visit  Barry  at  his  lodgings  in 
Brixton,  I  have  encountered  Black  on  his  way  to 
the  same  place,  dressed  with  his  usual  care  and 
neatness — a  frock-coated  figure  more  suited  to  Pic- 
cadilly on  a  summer  afternoon  than  to  the  unfash- 
ionable southern  suburb;  and  always  he  carried 
with  him,  regardless  of  appearances,  some  gift  for 
the  djnng  man — now  a  hare  dangling  in  dangerous 
proximity  to  the  smartly  cut  coat,  and  now  a  basin 

122 


BLACK'S    KINDNESS 

of  jelly  or  soup,  which  somehow  or  other  harmonized 
still  less  with  his  general  appearance  than  the  hare 
did.  The  world  never  saw  this  side  of  Black's  char- 
acter, never  even  guessed  at  its  existence.  Still 
less  did  the  men  who,  envious  of  his  sudden  rise  to 
fame  and  fortune,  sneered  at  him  as  a  dandy,  and 
charged  him  with  being  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of 
his  own  ends,  imagine  that  he  was  earning  by  the 
work  of  his  own  pen  the  money  which  kept  his  friend 
in  comfort  during  the  last  sad  days  of  his  short  life. 
This  was  the  real  Black,  however — the  Black  who 
was  never  visible  to  the  writers  of  personal  sketches 
in  the  newspapers,  or  the  casual  acquaintances  who 
saw  in  him  only  the  literary  lion  of  the  season. 

Akin  to  this  story  of  what  Black  did  for  William 
Barry  was  his  action  towards  another  friend  of  his 
engaged  in  literary  work  in  London.  This  was 
Charles  Gibbon,  the  novelist.  During  the  severe 
illness  of  this  gentleman  Black  found  that  he  was 
in  great  distress,  because  he  was  unable  to  proceed 
with  a  novel  which  he  had  undertaken  to  complete 
by  a  certain  date.  He  questioned  him  as  to  his 
intentions  with  regard  to  the  characters  of  the  story 
and  the  development  of  the  plot,  and,  having  learned 
what  he  wanted,  set  to  work  at  once  and  finished 
Gibbon's  story  before  he  put  pen  to  paper  on  his  own 
account. 

Barry  died,  and  Black  was  released  from  his  self- 
imposed  toil.  But  the  offer  which  he  had  in  the 
first  place  rejected  for  the  sake  of  his  friend  was 
renewed.  lie  became  associated  with  the  Leeds 
Mercury  as  one  of  its  regular  London  contributors, 

123 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

and,  as  a  consequence,  he  was  able  to  give  up  the 
Daily  Neivs  and  the  servitude  of  nightly  attendance 
at  the  office  in  Bouverie  Street.  He  still,  however, 
retained  one  post  in  connection  with  the  Daily  News. 
This  was  the  position  of  art  critic,  one  which  he 
held  for  many  years  and  greatly  valued. 


CHAPTER  IV 


"MADCAP  VIOLET  " 


His  Celtic  Temperament  —  Innocent  Love  Affairs  —  Marries 
Again  —  The  Reform  Club  —  Talk  at  the  Luncheon- table — 
Three  Feathers — Airlie  House — An  Evening  Walk — Madcap 
Violet — Black's  Mysticism — Visit  to  United  States — Newspaper 
Interviews — Curious  After-dinner  Speech — Green  Pastures  and 
Piccadilly — A  Portrait  by  Pettie — Macleod  of  Dare — Winter  Jour- 
ney to  Mull — Mr.  Wilson's  Reminiscences. 

THERE  was  a  side  of  Black's  character  that 
I  have  touched  on  but  lightly  so  far,  about 
which  it  is  time  to  say  something  more  definite. 
This  was  the  extent  to  which  his  temperament  was 
governed  by  his  perfervid  Celtic  blood.  Only  those 
nearest  and  dearest  to  him,  or  his  most  intimate 
friends,  were  permitted  to  see  this  side  of  his  nature. 
It  was  only  they  who  were  allowed  to  see  him  when 
the  silence  and  reserve  that  seemed  to  be  his  most 
notable  characteristics  were  suddenly  thrown  aside, 
and  he  flashed  before  his  friends  in  all  the  wild  ex- 
uberance of  spirits  which  distinguishes  the  Celt  in 
certain  moods.  Then,  when  he  allowed  his  spirit 
to  have  free  play,  he  appeared  as  the  absolute  oppo- 
site of  all  that  he  ordinarily  seemed  to  be.  Instead 
of  silence  there  was  speech — free,  copious,  and  un- 
restrained;  instead  of  an   impassive   reserve   there 

125 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

was  an  outburst  of  high  spirits  that  sometimes  ran 
to  almost  wild  extremes.  These  outbreaks,  so  char- 
acteristic of  the  nature  of  the  Highlander,  gener- 
ally followed  long  spells  of  anxious  work.  When 
they  occurred,  life  became  for  the  moment  a  huge 
practical  joke;  nothing  seemed  to  be  serious  and 
nothing  was  treated  seriously.  The  man  that  we 
knew  disappeared,  and  in  his  place  we  found  a  boy 
with  a  boy's  capacity  for  hilarious  mirth,  for  prac- 
tical jests,  for  an  indulgence  in  the  kind  of  merri- 
ment which  we  are  accustomed  to  associate  with 
animal  spirits  pure  and  simple.  It  is  necessary  to 
let  the  reader  into  this  innocent  secret  of  Black's 
life  in  order  that  he  may  not  misunderstand  some 
of  the  letters  which  T  have  from  time  to  time  to  quote. 
Those  written  to  his  nearest  relatives  and  friends 
were  often  colored  by  this  mood,  and  showed  him 
delighting  in  jests  and  humors  which  could  only 
be  understood  by  those  who  knew  something  of  his 
temper  at  the  moment.  Without  this  explanation 
they  would  be  wholly  unintelligible  to  the  ordinary 
reader.  Here,  for  example,  is  a  letter  to  his  brother- 
in-law,  written  soon  after  his  engagement : 

To  Mr.  J.  G.  Morten. 

"Daily  News"  Office, 

Thursday,  September,  1872. 
DEAR  MORTEN, — I  asked  you  to  write  a  pretty  letter 
to  that  young  person ;  but  I  did  not  ask  you  to  go  spoon- 
ing with  her.  "  Oh,"  she  says  to-day,  "  I  have  at  last 
met  with  one  gentleman  who  understands  my  character, 
and  who  is  capable  of  writing  courteously  to  me."  "  He 
is  making  game  of  you,"  said  I.     "  No,"  said  she,  "  the 

126 


CELTIC    TEMPERAMENT 

birds  were  sent  to  papa ;  but  they  were  meant  for  me,  and 
he  said  so.  And  I  am  going  to  ask  him  to  teach  me  all 
the  slang  he  knows,  so  that  I  may  bring  my  conversation 
down  to  your  level."  What  followed  I  don't  know.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  house  but  a  maid-servant,  who  has  been 
suborned  by  a  multitude  of  half-crowns  to  keep  out  of 
the  way.  But  the  young  party  is  really  as  proud  as  a 
peacock  over  your  letter,  and  is  giving  herself  airs.  I 
suppose  you  don't  know  that  musicians  have  written  songs 
to  her;  and  poets  dedicated  books  to  her;  and  painters 
painted  her  in  oil,  pastel,  and  water-color ;  and  yet  I  never 
saw  her  so  pleased  before.  .  .  . 

Faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 

I  burst  into  poetry  myself  about  her  up  in  the  High- 
lands, and  to-morrow  I'll  send  you  the  verses.  Don't 
say  there  is  a  trace  of  Undine  in  them. 

This  reads  like  a  page  out  of  the  Phaeton,  and 
in  this  spirit  it  was  doubtless  meant  to  be  read. 

Akin  to  the  proneness  of  Black  to  outbursts  of 
high  spirits  that  contrasted  strangely  with  his  cus- 
tomary silence  was  another  feature  of  his  character 
that  was  inherited  from  his  Celtic  ancestors.  This 
was  his  susceptibility  to  feminine  charm.  No  man 
could  have  painted  women  as  he  did  who  was  not 
keenly  susceptible,  not  merely  to  physical  beauty, 
but  to  grace  of  manner  and  charm  of  character.  In 
his  early  days  he  was  constantly  professing  himself 
the  victim  of  some  fair  lady.  His  love  affairs  were 
the  most  innocent  in  the  world,  and  they  were  never 
more  than  skin  deep;  but  he  was  rather  fond  of 
imposing  upon  his  friends  by  trying  to  make  them 
believe  that  each  particular  woman  whose  grace  or 

127 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

beauty  he  had  recognized  was  the  destined  con- 
queror of  his  heart.  It  is  not  easy  to  describe  this 
phase  of  his  character  in  the  clumsy  vehicle  of  prose. 
One  needed  to  see  Black  and  to  observe  the  light  in 
his  eye,  the  gleam  of  amusement  which  flitted  over 
his  face  when  he  dwelt  upon  his  latest  passion,  in 
order  to  understand  him.  Dull  people  formed  wholly 
erroneous  conclusions  with  regard  to  his  feelings, 
and  conceived  him  to  be  the  victim  of  innumerable 
love  affairs  of  the  most  tragical  description,  because 
of  the  fashion  in  which  he  purposely  exaggerated 
the  admiration  that  was  always  aroused  in  him  by 
grace,  beauty,  or  fascination  in  a  woman.  Yet, 
in  spite  of  his  somewhat  dangerous  susceptibility 
— a  susceptibility  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  that 
wonderful  gallery  of  feminine  portraits  he  has  be- 
queathed to  us — he  never  lost  his  head,  never  vent- 
ured out  of  his  depth,  or  gave  himself  or  others 
cause  for  a  moment's  pain;  and  she  whom  he  had 
chosen  as  his  wife  found  in  him  to  the  end  of  his  days 
a  faithful  and  chivalrous  husband  and  lover.  Per- 
haps the  truth  about  the  innocent  and  fleeting  ad- 
mirations and  attachments  of  his  early  days  will 
be  best  illustrated  by  an  anecdote  of  that  time  for 
which  I  am  indebted  to  his  sister.  He  had  been 
professing  for  some  time  to  be  the  devoted  slave  of 

a  certain  Miss  M ,  and  his  sister  had  invited  the 

young  lady  to  her  house  one  day  when  she  was  ex- 
pecting him.  When  Black  was  announced,  Mrs. 
Morten  went  into  her  drawing-room  to  greet  him, 
and  found  him  striding  up  and  down  the  apartment, 
with  bent  head  and  gloomy  countenance.     "Well, 

128 


MARRIES    AGAIN 

Will,  what  is  it  now?"  she  asked.  "I  am  in  de- 
spair/' he  answered.     "Oh,   but  you   need  not  be 

long  in  despair.     I   am  expecting  Miss  M to 

arrive  at  any  moment."  "Never  mention  her  name 
again  in  my  hearing!     Don't  you  know  that  lam 

devoted  to  Miss  X ,"  mentioning  another  young 

lady  whose  acquaintance  he  had  just  made,  and 
who  happened  to  suffer  from  a  slight  impediment 
in  her  speech.  "She  is  the  only  woman  for  me; 
and  I  would  give  worlds  if  I  could  only  hear  her 
call  me  once,  'Wi- William !,J  It  was  from  these 
purely  visionary  and,  to  a  large  extent,  histrionic 
love  affairs  that  he  constructed  the  delightful  love- 
making  scenes  that  are  scattered  throughout  his 
books. 

In  1874  Black  was  married  to  Miss  Simpson, 
who  now  survives  him.  The  marriage  took  place 
in  April.  For  some  months  Black  and  his  wife 
lived  in  a  house  which  he  had  taken  in  Canonbury, 
in  order  that  Mrs.  Black  might  be  near  her  widowed 
father.  Black's  mother  in  the  mean  time  remained 
in  Airlie  House,  and  it  was  here  that  the  newly 
married  couple  entertained  their  friends.  The  Canon- 
bury  arrangement,  which  had  been  entered  into 
solely  with  a  view  to  the  comfort  of  Mrs.  Black's 
father,  only  lasted  to  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when 
the  house  was  given  up,  and  Black  and  his  wife 
took  up  their  permanent  abode  at  Airlie  House. 

It  was  in  this  year  that  Black  became  a  member 

of  the  Reform  Club,  where  he  formed  associations 

to  which  he  became  much  attached.     Before  joining 

the  Reform  he  had  been  a  member  of  the  Pall  Mall 

9  T29 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

Club — a  nondescript  institution,  having  no  special 
character  of  its  own,  which  was  established  in  a 
house  at  the  corner  of  Waterloo  Place  and  lower 
Regent  Street.  It  was  in  this  club  that  I  first  dined 
with  Black  as  his  guest,  my  fellow  -  guests  being 
William  Barry  and  Colin  Hunter.  The  latter  had 
at  the  time  just  achieved  his  first  big  success  with 
a  picture  in  the  Royal  Academy,  and  it  was  de- 
lightful to  observe  Black's  enthusiasm  over  his 
friend's  performance,  and  the  confidence  with  which 
he  predicted  a  brilliant  future  for  him.  No  one  who 
saw  him  with  either  Hunter  or  Barry  in  those  days 
could  feel  surprised  at  the  warmth  of  the  affection 
he  evoked  from  those  who  were  really  his  friends. 

The  Reform  Club  was  a  very  different  institution 
from  the  Pall  Mall  Club.  Here  Black  found  him- 
self associated  with  a  set  of  men  who  were  in  most 
respects  thoroughly  congenial.  Mr.  E.  D.  J.  Wilson 
writes  to  me  as  follows  respecting  Black's  surround- 
ings at  the  Reform:  "In  1876  I  became  a  member 
of  the  Reform  Club,  which  Black  had  joined  some 
two  years  earlier,  and  there  I  used  to  meet  him  regu- 
larly. A  little  group,  which  Mr.  Bernal  Osborne 
dubbed  'the  press  gang,'  foregathered  daily  for 
lunch  at  a  table  in  one  of  the  windows  looking  out 
upon  the  gardens  in  front  of  Carlton  Terrace.  James 
Payn  and  William  Black,  J.  R.  Robinson,  of  the 
Daily  News,  J.  C.  Parkinson  and  myself  consti- 
tuted the  original  companionship,  though  after- 
wards some  fell  away  and  others  took  their  places. 
Here  there  was  every  day  a  great  deal  of  pleasant 
and  harmless  chaff,  with  some  more  serious  talk, 

130 


THE    REFORM    CLUB 

though,  as  there  were  differences  of  opinion  among 
us,  politics  were  generally  tabooed.  Payn,  the  life 
and  soul  of  the  little  company,  dedicated  one  of 
the  best  of  his  novels — By  Proxy — to  the  luncheon- 
table.  It  occurred  to  one  member  of  the  party  to 
include  the  ladies  of  our  respective  families  in  a 
friendly  gathering,  and  he  and  his  wife  gave  a  hos- 
pitable welcome  at  his  own  house  to  three  other 
married  couples  and  a  father  accompanied  by  his 
daughter.  But  cameraderie  is  not  a  state  of  feeling 
to  be  created  at  will,  and  I  do  not  recollect  that  the 
experiment  was  repeated  in  a  systematic  way,  though 
some  of  our  womenkind  became  as  heartily  friends 
as  any  of  ourselves." 

Mr.  Wilson  has  hardly  expressed  the  full  impor- 
tance of  an  institution  which  for  many  years  pla}Ted 
a  considerable  part  in  the  social  life  of  Black.  The 
luncheon-table  was  a  centre  to  which  those  who  had 
the  privilege  of  meeting  at  it  were  drawn  almost 
daily  during  a  period  of  more  than  a  score  of  years. 
On  the  first  day  on  which  I  appeared  at  the  Reform 
Club  in  the  character  of  a  new  member,  Black  took 
me  by  the  arm  and  formall}7  installed  me  in  a  chair 
at  the  table,  at  which  I  felt  it  to  be  a  privilege 
to  sit.  In  addition  to  those  named  by  Mr.  Wilson, 
Henry  James,  Sala,  Manville  Fenn,  George  Russell, 
and  many  other  men  connected  with  journalism  and 
letters  met  regularly,  and  here  they  spent  not  a  few 
of  the  happiest  hours  of  their  lives.  Payn's  delight- 
ful humor,  his  ringing  laugh,  his  never-failing  flow 
of  chaff,  at  once  witty  and  tender,  his  loud-spoken 
denunciation   of   everything    mean   and   contempti- 

131 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

ble,  gave  a  peculiar  note  of  its  own  to  the  talk  at  the 
table.  Black  did  not  shine  as  Payn  did  in  conver- 
sation, but  he  talked  his  best  at  the  luncheon-table, 
and  could  cap  Payn's  jests  with  a  good  story,  an 
epigram,  or  a  quaint  joke  of  his  own  that  had  the 
point  and  flavor  that  epigrams  and  jokes  ought  to 
have.  Here,  year  by  year,  the  friends  met  and  dis- 
cussed their  own  affairs — even  the  most  private  of 
them  —  with  the  frank  unreserve  of  brothers.  If 
they  formed  no  mutual  admiration  society,  and  had 
no  mawkish  love  of  flattery,  they  all  appreciated 
each  other's  good  points,  and  were  ready  to  praise 
freely  that  which  they  thought  worthy  of  being 
praised  in  the  performances  of  any  of  their  num- 
ber. Here,  too,  they  discussed  the  news  of  the  day 
with  the  freedom  born  of  a  complete  indifference  to 
the  conventional  beliefs  in  politics  or  ethics.  It 
was  a  delightful  symposium,  and  it  had  a  direct  in- 
fluence upon  the  opinions  of  most  who  took  part  in 
it,  forming  their  judgment,  widening  their  sympa- 
thies, and  expelling  from  their  minds  the  last  traces 
of  provincialism  in  thought  or  feeling.  There  was 
one  curious  contrast  between  Payn  and  Black  which 
was  very  noticeable.  The  former  would  talk  freely 
about  his  work,  the  book  or  article  that  he  was  writ- 
ing at  the  moment.  He  delighted  to  discuss  his  plots, 
and  to  invite  the  opinions  of  his  friends  upon  the 
names  he  had  given  to  his  novels  or  the  characters 
in  them.  Black,  on  the  other  hand,  though  he  told 
us  freely  of  his  private  affairs  and  the  incidents  of 
his  personal  life,  rarely,  if  ever,  mentioned  his  work. 
It  was  something  too  intimately  associated  with  his 

132 


JAMES     PAYN 

own  most  private  thoughts  to  be  discussed  with  free- 
dom even  among  his  friends.     He  was  a  critic  who 
held  strong  views  about  the  work  of  others,  and  at 
the  luncheon-table  he  was  ever  ready  to  express  those 
views  with  the  force   and   clearness  which   distin- 
guished his  style  in  writing.     Like  the  rest  of  the 
world,  both  he  and  Pajm  had  prejudices  of  their 
own  with  regard  to  persons  and  books;  but  these 
prejudices    notwithstanding,    they   were   never   un- 
generous  in   their   judgments    upon   contemporary 
writers,  and  even  when  they  knew  that  some  par- 
ticular author  was  indifferent  as  a  man,  they  did 
not  allow  their  dislike  for  his  personality  to  prevent 
their  recognition  of  the  merits  of  his  work.     All  the 
members  of  the  luncheon-party  had  one  character- 
istic  in   common:   they   were  almost   painfully   in- 
tolerant of  bores,  and  it  was  amusing  sometimes  to 
observe  the  manoeuvres  to  which  Black  and  Payn, 
in  particular,  would    resort   in   order  to  guard  the 
table  from  the  approach  of  some  one  whose  virtues 
were  more  conspicuous  than  his  brightness  in  con- 
versation.    I  always  had  a  suspicion,  however,  that 
two  of  Black's  favorite  topics,  upon  which  at  times 
he  would  dilate  with  enthusiasm  and  the  fulness  of 
detail  that  comes  from  real  knowledge,  were  weari- 
some to  Payn.     He  never  allowed  this  feeling  to  be 
apparent  to  the  other;  but  I  confess  that  art  and 
salmon-fishing  never  appeared  to  me  to  be  altogether 
congenial  topics  to  the  author  of  Lost  Sir  Massing- 
berd.     Books,  men  and  women,  public  affairs,  the 
sins  of  publishers,  and,  in  short,  almost  every  topic 
in  which  a  brilliant  man  of  letters  might  be  expected 

133 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

to  take  an  interest,  moved  the  heart  and  inspired 
the  tongue  of  Payn;  but  he  drew  the  line  at  art  and 
salmon-fishing,  and  Black  loved  to  talk  about  both. 
Yet  even  Payn  freely  acknowledged  that  upon  these 
subjects  Black  talked  extremely  well.  I  do  not 
think  that  in  all  the  years  in  which  I  was  associated 
with  him  I  ever  heard  the  latter  describe  verbally 
a  piece  of  natural  scenery.  One  had  to  go  to  his 
books  for  the  glowing  transcripts  from  nature  which 
he  could  render  better  than  any  other  writer  of  his 
day.  But  I  have  often  heard  him  describe  a  picture 
by  some  one  of  his  favorite  band  of  artists,  and  it 
was  nothing  less  than  wonderful  to  note  the  vivid- 
ness and  fidelity  with  which  he  made  the  canvas 
that  had  won  his  admiration  live  again  before  your 
eyes.  I  shall  have  more  to  say  by-and-by  of  his 
love  of  salmon  -  fishing  and  the  whole-hearted  en- 
thusiasm he  displayed  in  talking  about  that  sport. 
Here  I  need  only  note  the  fact  that  in  our  sympo- 
sium at  the  luncheon-table  he  seemed  to  represent 
rather  the  sportsman  and  the  artist  than  the  pro- 
fessional man  of  letters. 

Gone,  alas!  are  the  members  of  that  symposium 
who  gave  to  it  its  chief  charm.  The  band  who  still 
gather  round  the  table  are  thinned  in  numbers  and 
bent  with  the  weight  of  years ;  but  not  a  few  of  their 
brightest  memories  are  those  which  belong  to  the 
days  when  the  table  was  at  its  prime,  and  which 
cling  to  the  figures  of  James  Payn  and  William 
Black.  As  Mr.  Wilson  has  noted,  one  of  those  who 
were  wont  to  join  the  table  as  occasional  members 
was   Mr.    Bernal   Osborne.     His   mordant   wit   was 

134 


THREE    FEATHERS 


>  y 


known  to  all,  and  feared  by  most ;  but  at  the  lunch- 
eon-table he  was  always  harmless,  and  therefore 
never  feared.  His  nearest  approach  to  the  person- 
alities which  he  loved  was  in  his  occasional  refer- 
ence to  Black's  habit  of  drinking  a  pint  of  cham- 
pagne at  luncheon.  He  would  point  to  the  bottle 
and  say,  "  Young  man,  in  ten  years'  time  you  will 
not  be  doing  that."  I  remember  how,  the  ten  years 
having  passed,  Black  recalled  Bernal  Osborne's 
warnings,  and  dwelt  with  proper  pride  upon  the 
fact  that  he  had  survived,  while  his  censor  had  passed 
away. 

In  the  later  months  of  1874  Black  not  only  paid 
a  visit  to  Germany — in  the  course  of  which  he  went 
over  the  Franco-Prussian  battle-fields  —  but  went 
down  to  Cornwall  in  order  to  study  the  scenery  for 
the  story  of  Three  Feathers.  This  story  may  be 
said  to  have  been  in  the  nature  of  an  experiment. 
It  was  his  first  attempt,  after  the  brilliant  success 
of  his  Scotch  novels,  to  write  a  tale  of  purely  Eng- 
lish life.  Three  Feathers,  which  appeared  serially 
in  the  Comhill  Magazine  during  1875,  was  certainly 
not  a  failure;  but  it  cannot  be  said  to  have  reached 
the  level  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  or  A  Princess  of 
Thule.  Cornwall  has  a  romance  of  its  own,  but 
it  is  a  different  romance  from  that  of  Black's  native 
country — as  different  as  is  the  Cornish  scenery  from 
that  of  the  Hebrides.  Black  was  anything  but  will- 
ing to  regard  himself  as  being  what  on  the  stage 
is  known  as  a  "one-part  actor."  He  could  describe 
the  coast  of  Cornwall  with  as  fine  a  literary  skill  as 
that  which  he  devoted  to  the  painting  of  the  lochs 

135 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

of  Skye  or  the  islets  of  the  far  west.  But  some- 
how or  other  he  could  not  invest  the  new  scenes 
with  the  glamour  which  belonged  to  the  old.  The 
men  and  women  of  the  story  were  bright  and  taking, 
clearly  drawn,  full  of  life,  and  attractive  in  their 
sympathetic  qualities,  but  they  wanted  the  High- 
land spirit  with  which  Black  was  so  thoroughly  at 
home;  and,  lacking  this,  they  could  not  make  so 
strong  an  appeal  to  the  reader  as  Leezibeth  or  the 
King  of  Borva,  to  say  nothing  of  Sheila,  had  done. 
In  spite,  therefore,  of  his  unwillingness  to  confine 
his  art  to  a  single  field,  Black  was  convinced,  after 
writing  Three  Feathers,  that  it  was  Scots  life  and 
character,  and  Scots  scenery,  that  afforded  the 
widest  scope  to  his  peculiar  talents. 

It  was  in  1875  that  William  Barry's  long  illness 
ended  in  his  death. 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Airlie  House, 

Camberwell  Grove, 

Thursday. 

MY  DEAR  REID, — All  throughout  this  affair  your  kind- 
ness to  Barry  has  been  very  great  indeed.  The  other 
day  a  somewhat  sentimental  lady  wrote  to  me,  referring 
to  a  munificent  donation  of  a  couple  of  guineas,  "  You 
will  have  the  prayers  of  these  orphans ;  and  just  see  what 
a  prosperous  year  you  will  have."  A  couple  of  guineas! 
Then  consider  what  reward  you  ought  to  have! 

At  the  same  time  this  is  a  business  affair;  and  if  you 
and  the  proprietors  of  the  Leeds  Mercury  consider  that  so 
far  all  has  been  satisfactorily  arranged  by  the  proposal 
you  make,  I  am  not  only  satisfied,  but  abundantly  grateful. 
As  to  the  future — I  fear  that  as  regards  Barry  there  is  a 

136 


THE    "LEEDS     MERCURY' 

short  future  to  be  taken  into  consideration — I  should  be 
very  willing  to  undertake  the  arrangement  you  suggest; 
but  my  time  is  sometimes  run  very  hard  in  the  afternoon, 
and  sometimes  I  don't  hear  anything  worth  sending  you 
for  a  day  or  two  together.  Would  you  alter  the  arrange- 
ment in  this  way:  that  anything  I  can  send  you  will  be 
taken  to  supply  any  deficiency  on  Barry's  part,  and  that 
after  that  any  possible  surplus  be  credited  to  me?  .  .  . 
In  any  case  I  am  very  deeply  and  personally  obliged  to 
you  for  the  consideration  you  have  shown  to  a  brother- 
journalist  who  has  been  thrown  under  by  the  wheel  of 
fate,  and  I  am,  Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Reform  Club, 

Saturday. 
MY  DEAR  REID, — Barry  has  been  very  bad  indeed — I 
wholly  despaired  of  him  a  few  weeks  ago ;  but  I  am  heartily 
glad  to  say  that  now  he  seems  to  be  pulling  up  considerably. 
I  can't  say  whether  he  will  be  able  to  pull  through;  but  he 
is  at  least  a  great  deal  better.  When  you  come  up  to  Lon- 
don we  might  run  out  and  see  him ;  and  then,  as  he  lives 
not  far  from  me,  I  should  like  to  have  the  pleasure  of  in- 
troducing you  to  my  wife.  But  that  does  not  impinge  on 
the  engagement  you  have  made  to  dine  with  me. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

P.S. — I  am  very  glad  indeed  you  like  the  Three  Feathers. 
A  story  so  very  quiet  in  incident  suffers  by  appearing  in 
instalments. 

Barry's  unexpected  rally  did  not  last  long,  and 
soon  after  the  above  letter  was  written  the  end  came. 
Black,  as  has  already  been  told,  then  took  Barry's 

137 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

place  as  the  chief  London  correspondent  of  the  Leeds 
Mercury,  and  as  he  now  received  the  full  salary  of 
the  post,  he  was  enabled  to  retire  from  his  reg- 
ular work  on  the  Daily  News.  For  some  time  he 
continued  to  act  as  correspondent  of  the  Mercury, 
dealing  chiefly  with  social,  artistic,  and  literary 
matters;  but  the  time  came  when  he  found  it  in- 
compatible with  the  ever  -  increasing  engagements 
that  poured  in  upon  the  popular  author  to  retain 
any  connection  with  journalism.  So,  to  his  own  re- 
gret, not  less  than  to  mine,  the  business  tie  which  for 
a  time  united  us  was  severed.  His  resignation  of  his 
post  as  London  correspondent  of  the  Leeds  Mercury 
was  finally  accelerated  by  a  malicious  attack  upon 
him  in  the  pages  of  a  society  journal.  The  attack  was 
as  ridiculous  as  it  was  contemptible,  but  it  wounded 
Black's  sensitive  nature,  and  made  him  eager  to  re- 
sign any  connection  with  the  newspaper  press. 

Airlie  House  became,  in  these  first  years  of  his 
happy  married  life,  the  scene  of  many  and  varied 
hospitalities.  He  liked  to  gather  around  him  a  few 
chosen  friends,  and  at  his  dinner-table  he  delighted 
all  by  the  freshness  of  his  talk  and  the  exuberance 
of  his  spirits.  The  contrast  between  the  man  in 
his  own  house,  entertaining  a  few  congenial  guests, 
and  the  Black  who  was  known  to  society  and  the 
world  at  large,  was  indeed  striking.  On  several 
occasions  I  spent  a  day  or  two  with  him  and  Mrs. 
Black  at  Airlie  House.  His  mother,  who  was  still 
living  with  him,  added  to  the  pleasure  of  these  visits 
by  her  homely  Scots  wit  and  her  characteristic  de- 
votion to  the  son  she  admired  as  well  as  loved.     One 

138 


AN    EVENING     WALK 

evening,  in  the  year  1875,  I  went  out  with  Black 
for  a  long  after-dinner  stroll.  As  we  sauntered 
along,  placidly  smoking  our  cigars  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  night,  Black  began  to  play  the  part 
of  a  showman,  pointing  out  to  me  houses  and 
roads  to  which  he  attached  associations  that  were 
wholly  strange  to  me.  Thus,  at  the  top  of  Cam- 
berwell  Grove  he  pointed  to  a  little  cottage  orne, 
standing  in  its  own  modest  grounds,  and  said: 
"That  is  where  James  Drummond  lives."  "Who 
is  he?"  1  asked.  "A  great  friend  of  mine,"  he 
replied;  "you  shall  know  all  about  him  some 
day."  Then,  when  we  came  to  a  larger  house,  he 
remarked  that  a  young  ladies'  school  of  a  very  high 
class  was  kept  there,  and  that  among  the  pupils  was 
a  certain  Violet  North,  who  was  one  of  the  most 
charming  young  women  he  knew.  Step  by  step  as 
we  proceeded  on  our  way  he  had  ever  some  new 
feature  to  point  out,  and  always  it  was  associated 
with  the  fortunes  of  people  of  whom  I  had  never 
heard  before.  At  last,  when  our  walk  was  over, 
and  we  again  stood  on  the  threshold  of  Airlie  House, 
I  could  not  help  exclaiming:  'Who  are  all  these 
people,  Black,  that  you  have  been  telling  me  about; 
all  these  '  dearest  friends '  of  yours,  of  whom  1  never 
heard  before?  Are  they  real  or — "  "They  are 
real  enough  to  me,"  he  responded,  "and  you  will 
get  to  know  all  about  them  if  you  read  Macmillan's 
Magazine  next  year."  Then  I  knew  that  it  was 
as  1  had  suspected,  and  that  Black  had  so  far  broken 
down  the  reserve  which  he  commonly  maintained 
with  regard  to  everything  that  touched  his  work  as 

139 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

to  give  me  some  foreshadowing  of  the  characters 
whose  fortunes  he  was  even  then  weaving  into  the 
beautiful  story  of  Madcap  Violet.  Well  might  he 
say  that  these  people,  the  creations  of  his  pen,  were 
real  to  him.  They  were,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  more 
real  than  the  creatures  of  flesh  and  blood  beside  him. 
This  was  one  of  his  distinguishing  characteristics 
as  a  novelist.  While  he  was  writing  one  of  those 
stories  of  his  by  which  for  years  he  kept  great  mul- 
titudes of  men  and  women,  as  it  were,  under  a  spell, 
he  lived  the  better  part  of  his  life  in  the  imaginary 
world  that  he  had  created.  It  was  sometimes  with 
difficulty  that  he  came  out  of  this  fairy  dreamland 
to  deal  with  the  commonplace  realities  of  every-day 
existence.  For  months  at  a  stretch  the  men  and 
women  with  whom  his  soul  was  in  closest  contact, 
and  who  were  most  real  to  him,  were  these  children 
of  his  own  fancy.  He  was  absorbed  in  them  and  in 
their  fortunes,  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  the  visible 
world  and  its  inhabitants.  This  was  the  secret  of 
some  traits  of  his  character  that  puzzled,  if  they  did 
not  jar  upon,  those  who  knew  him  but  slightly.  It 
accounted  for  his  apparent  indifference  at  times  to 
what  was  passing  around  him,  for  the  difficulty 
with  which,  at  certain  seasons,  he  seemed  to  arouse 
himself  to  the  recognition  of  old  acquaintances,  for 
the  air  of  deep  abstraction  which  of  ten .  distinguish- 
ed him  in  crowded  assemblies.  Everything  was 
changed  when  his  work  was  done,  and  its  burden  no 
longer  weighed  upon  him.  Then  he  threw  himself 
into  the  companionship  of  his  friends  with  the  light- 
hearted  thoroughness  of  a  boy  living  only  for  the 

140 


"MADCAP    VIOLET" 

spirit  and  the  pleasures  of  the  moment.  But  while 
his  novel  was  in  progress,  and  he  was  weaving  in 
his  own  mind  the  story  that  he  was  about  to  commit 
to  paper,  he  seemed  to  be  withdrawn  into  a  world  of 
his  own,  and  to  be  much  engrossed  with  the  men 
and  women  whom  he  saw  there  to  have  eyes  for 
the  people  of  every-day  life.  I  shall  have  more  to 
say,  before  I  have  completed  my  task,  of  this  feat- 
ure in  Black's  character,  for  it  was  one  that  not 
only  existed  to  the  end  of  his  life,  but  became  more 
marked  and  obvious  with  the  passage  of  the  years. 

Certainly,  when  he  was  writing  Madcap  Violet, 
he  was  deeply  absorbed  in  the  work — so  deeply  that 
his  friends  were  reluctant  to  obtrude  upon  him  ex- 
cept in  those  rare  hours  that  he  deliberately  set  aside 
for  rest  and  recreation.  The  novel  was  published 
serially  in  Macmillan's  Magazine,  and  there,  as  he 
had  promised  me,  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the 
mysterious  men  and  women  of  whom  he  had  talked 
during  that  winter's  night's  ramble  at  Denmark 
Hill.  Some  of  them  were  not  absolutely  fictitious 
persons.  In  James  Drummond,  for  example,  he  had 
embodied  some  of  the  most  striking  characteristics 
of  his  own  well-beloved  brother  James;  and  he  told 
me,  in  reply  to  an  inquiry  that  I  addressed  to  him 
one  day,  that  there  was  also  something  in  the  char- 
acter of  Drummond  of  our  common  friend,  J.  F. 
Maclennan,  the  distinguished  author  of  Primitive 
Marriage.  The  heroine  was  a  child  of  his  own 
genius  and  imagination,  in  whose  personality  no 
one  could  trace  the  likeness  of  any  living  original. 
As  the  serial  advanced  towards  completion  in  Mac- 

141 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

millan's  Magazine  an  uneasy  apprehension  took 
possession  of  the  minds  of  many  readers  that  it  was 
going  to  "  end  badly."  I  asked  him  one  day  whether 
this  was  the  case,  and  his  curt  reply  was,  "Do  you 
think  I  would  tell  you  or  any  other  human  being 
how  the  story  is  going  to  end?"  And  then  he  told 
me  how  Mr.  Swinburne,  the  poet,  had  addressed  a 
similar  inquiry  to  him,  and,  on  getting  the  same 
answer,  said,  "  I  will  go  down  on  my  knees  to  you  to 
spare  that  sweet  Violet!"  Letters  by  the  score — I 
think  I  may  say  by  the  hundred — began  to  pour  into 
Black's  room  with  prayers  of  the  same  kind;  and 
they  came  from  readers  of  all  classes  and  conditions. 
For  long  Black  kept  a  stony  silence  to  everybody, 
while  he  "tholed  his  assize"  in  solitude;  no  happier, 
I  am  sure,  than  the  most  sensitive  of  his  readers  at 
the  fate  which  he  saw  impending  over  the  creatures 
of  his  fancy;  and  then  one  day,  most  unexpectedly, 
I  had  the  following  letter  from  him : 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Reform  Club, 

Tuesday. 
MY  DEAR  REID, — I  am  really  very  glad  you  like  this 
new  story,  as  I  know  I  can't  do  any  better,  and  your  note 
is  about  the  first  expression  of  opinion  I  have  had — ex- 
cepting the,  of  course,  highly  unbiased  and  impartial 
one  of  my  wife.  I  am,  however,  in  a  position  of  great 
difficulty  with  regard  to  it.  My  earlier  notions  of  the 
course  of  it  were  all  towards  a  happy  ending ;  but  the  thing 
itself  has  been  drifting  towards  a  tragic  end,  and  I  shall 
run  the  risk  of  outraging  all  sorts  of  tender  susceptibilities 
if  I  let  it  go  on  to  that.     However,  we  shall  see.  .  .  . 

William  Black. 
142 


"A    BAD    ENDING" 

I  answered,  vaguely  and  to  little  purpose,  I  have 
no  doubt,  and  this  was  his  brief  response : 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Reform  Club, 

Monday. 

MY   DEAR   REID,— Thank  you   very   much.     I   think 

the  story  must  go  that  way  now,  though  I  started  with  a 

different  intention. 

Faithfully  yours, 

William  Black. 

A  few  days  later  he  wrote  to  me  again,  saying 
that  the  story  was  finished,  and  that,  sorely  against 
his  own  will,  it  had  ended  in  tragedy.  His  special 
purpose  in  writing,  however,  was  to  ask  my  opinion 
of  the  concluding  lines  of  the  book — a  brief  epilogue, 
in  which  he  had  at  least  made  it  clear  that  the  men 
and  women,  or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  the  man  and 
woman,  in  Madcap  Violet  were  as  dear  to  him  as  to 
his  readers,  and  were,  besides,  intensely,  almost  trag- 
ically, real.  This  epilogue  went  so  far  that,  fearing 
it  might  be  misunderstood,  I  ventured  to  suggest  a 
slight  emendation.  He  did  not  resent  my  sugges- 
tion, and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  despite  the  objections 
he  raised  in  the  following  letter,  he  adopted  it. 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Airlie  House, 

Camberwell  Grove, 

Friday. 

MY  DEAR  REID, — Thank  you  very  much  for  all  the 

trouble  you  have  taken  about  this  small  matter.     Your 

emendation  certainly  adds  strength,  and  my  wife  is  strongly 

of  opinion  I  .should  use  it,  my  only  doubt  being  that  it 

143 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

would  suggest  to  many  the  last  line  of  Browning's  Evelyn 
Hope — something  like,  "  You  will  waken,  and  see,  and 
understand."  The  ideas,  of  course,  are  quite  different; 
but  you  never  can  tell  what  fancies  of  plagiarism  get  into 
the  heads  of  idiotic  people.  However,  I  shall  have  a  further 
consideration  of  the  matter.  .  .  . 

Yours  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

Here  is  the  passage  as  it  was  printed  at  the  end 
of  the  book.  All  but  the  last  fifteen  words  is  Black's 
own :  "  And  now  to  you — you  whose  names  are 
written  in  these  blurred  pages,  some  portion  of  whose 
lives  I  have  tried  to  trace  with  a  wandering  and  un- 
certain pen — I  stretch  out  a  hand  of  farewell.  Yet 
not  quite  of  farewell,  perhaps ;  for  amid  all  the  shapes 
and  phantoms  of  this  world  of  mystery,  where  the 
shadows  we  meet  can  tell  us  neither  whence  they 
came  nor  whither  they  go,  surely  you  have  for  me 
a  no  less  substantial  existence  that  may  have  its 
chances  in  the  time  to  come.  To  me  you  are  more 
real  than  most  I  know;  what  wonder  then  if  I  were 
to  meet  you  on  the  threshold  of  the  great  unknown, 
you  all  shining  with  a  new  light  on  your  face?  Trem- 
bling, I  stretch  out  my  hands  to  you,  for  your  si- 
lence is  awful,  and  there  is  sadness  in  your  eyes, 
but  the  day  may  come  wrhen  you  will  speak,  and  I 
shall  hear — and  understand."  If  I  did  not  know 
that  this  passage  was  no  clever  touch  of  art,  but  the 
real  expression  of  the  passionate  mood  of  Black  at 
the  moment,  written,  as  it  were,  in  his  heart's  blood, 
I  should  not  have  ventured  to  quote  it  here. 

Madcap   Violet   undoubtedly   added   sensibly   to 

144 


THE    REAL    BLACK 

its  author's  reputation.  It  was,  of  course,  impos- 
sible that  he  should  repeat  the  brilliant  triumph  of 
A  Daughter  of  Heth.  He  could  not  a  second  time 
thrill  his  readers  with  the  sight  of  a  new  world,  of 
the  existence  of  which  at  their  very  doors  they  had 
never  dreamed;  nor  could  he  startle  them  by  the 
revelation  of  a  talent  that  was  not  only  remark- 
able but  unsuspected.  But,  none  the  less,  Madcap 
Violet  made  a  profound  impression  upon  its  read- 
ers, and  to  many  of  them  seemed  the  most  pow- 
erful piece  of  work  that  Black  had  yet  produced. 
I  think  the  critical  judgment  of  those  who  hereafter 
may  seek  to  compare  the  author's  different  works 
will  ratify  this  belief.  Madcap  Violet  is  in  many 
respects  the  most  finished,  and  consequently  the 
most  satisfactory,  of  all  its  author's  works.  He 
was  no  longer  an  alien  and  a  novice  in  the  great 
world  of  London,  and  he  could  consequently  move 
without  faltering  through  the  scenes  of  its  social  life 
with  which  he  dealt  in  telling  the  story  of  Violet 
North.  The  style  of  the  book  was  riper  and  more 
mellowed  than  in  any  of  its  predecessors,  and  the 
theme  had  fascinated  the  author  even  more,  if  it 
were  possible,  than  it  had  fascinated  the  great  mul- 
titude of  readers  who  followed  the  fortunes  of  the 
characters  with  eyes  that  were  often  dimmed  by 
tears.  One  can  well  understand  that  the  people 
who  had  met  Black  in  casual  acquaintanceship 
were  puzzled  when  they  recalled  its  author  as  he 
appeared  to  them — shy,  silent,  reserved,  intensely 
matter-of-fact,  only  moved  to  animation,  as  it  seemed, 
by  the  talk  of  salmon-fishers,  or  connoisseurs  of 

145 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

cigars,  or  perhaps,  if  the  moment  were  propitious, 
of  art  critics.  They  wondered  how  such  a  man 
could  have  written  such  a  book.  They  did  not  un- 
derstand that  the  writer  was  the  real  Black,  and 
the  other  only  the  commonplace  mask  behind  which 
the  true  man  was  hidden. 

The  story  which  came  next  in  succession  to  Mad- 
cap Violet  was  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly.  It 
was  by  no  means  so  successful  as  the  Scotch  stories, 
but  it  was  bright  and  entertaining,  and  once  again 
it  afforded  evidence  of  its  author's  powers  as  a  de- 
scriptive writer.  The  most  important  feature,  how- 
ever, of  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly  was  the  fact 
that  Black  placed  some  of  its  scenes  in  America, 
and  that,  in  order  to  get  the  local  color  for  the  story, 
he  visited  the  United  States  during  the  autumn  of 
1876.  His  travelling  companions  were  Sir  Lauder 
Brunton,  the  eminent  physician,  and  Mr.  G.  L. 
Craik,  one  of  the  partners  in  the  firm  of  Macmillan 
&  Company.  Black's  popularity  among  readers 
in  the  United  States  was  very  great,  and  he  was 
eagerly  welcomed  by  a  host  of  American  friends. 
I  think  that  greater  curiosity  as  to  the  personality 
of  the  creator  of  Sheila  and  Bell  prevailed  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic  than  upon  this.  At  all 
events,  Black,  during  his  visit  to  the  States,  had 
to  undergo  a  course  of  lionizing  of  the  most  severe 
description.  The  newspapers  welcomed  him  with 
effusion,  and  he  had  to  submit  to  the  inevitable  in- 
terviews. It  is  amusing  to  note  the  description  of 
him  in  one  of  the  New  York  newspapers  at  the  time. 
"The  gentleman  whose  name  is  known  to  a  multi- 

146 


VISIT    TO    AMERICA 

tude  of  people  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  by  many 
charming  fictions,  is  of  middle  height,  not  over 
thirty  years  of  age,  with  dark-brown  hair,  as  yet 
apparently  untinged  with  a  single  thread  of  gray; 
a  well-balanced  head,  with  the  fulness  above  the 
dark  hazel  eyes  indicating  ideality;  a  mouth  firm, 
yet  pleasing  in  contour,  partly  hidden  by  a  brown 
mustache;  in  dress  quiet  and  unpresuming,  as 
becomes  a  gentleman,  and  possessing  a  voice  res- 
onant and  manly.  In  commencing  a  conversa- 
tion with  a  stranger,  Mr.  Black  showed  some  hesi- 
tation in  speech,  but  this  soon  disappeared,  and  the 
distinguished  novelist  proved  himself  a  charming 
conversationalist,  giving  play  at  times  to  the  merry 
fancies  which  constitute  the  chief  charm  of  some 
of  his  works.  It  is  always  instructive/'  adds  the 
reporter,  "to  be  criticised  by  an  intelligent  stranger; 
but  when  Mr.  Black  was  asked  to  give  his  impres- 
sions of  America  and  Americans,  he  replied  with  such 
rare  good  sense  and  grace  that  one  could  not  help 
being  impressed  with  the  bonhomie  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  a  critic  who  had  not  been  soured  by  disap- 
pointment, and  of  a  tourist  who  would  not  denounce 
the  republic  because  he  had  been  served  with  a  stale 

egg." 

To  one  of  his  interviewers  Black  gave  a  brief 
account  of  his  visit  to  the  States.  After  telling 
how  he  had  visited  Boston,  Montreal,  and  Chicago, 
he  went  on  to  say  that  he  was  much  more  inter- 
ested in  the  great  West,  and  especially  in  his  glimpse 
of  the  Indians  on  their  reservation  on  the  Missouri 
River,  than  in  the  life  of  the  cities.     They  seemed  to 

147 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

him  to  be  good,  industrious  men,  and  a  great  many 
of  them  fine  specimens  of  humanity.  In  Colorado 
he  was  charmed  by  the  scenery.  "  Its  magnificence 
is  almost  unequalled,  and  it  would  be  a  fine  idea  for 
parties  of  emigrants  to  go  out  to  some  sections  of 
that  marvellous  land  and  make  a  grand  encamp- 
ment." Asked  what  he  thought  of  the  cowboys 
and  rangers  of  that  country,  he  replied:  "I  cannot 
too  strongly  express  my  admiration  for  them.  They 
are  the  most  splendid  specimens  of  mankind  I  have 
ever  seen.  They  have  bodies  magnificently  propor- 
tioned, bright  eyes,  clean  limbs,  no  extra  fat  on  their 
chests  or  arms,  and,  above  all,  have  faces  clean- 
cut  as  Grecian  marbles."  "Then,"  said  his  inter- 
locutor, "  they  must  be  built  like  the  Arabs  or  Egyp- 
tians?" "Precisely,  and  are  almost  as  brown. 
They  live  in  the  open  air,  and  of  course  are  nearly 
always  on  horseback.  They  ride  like  centaurs. 
Then  they  are  so  picturesque,  with  their  half-Mex- 
ican trappings,  long,  loose,  flowing  cloaks,  fringed 
jackets,  and  fanciful  adornments  of  the  horses.  I 
do  not  think  they  have  come  from  the  Eastern  States, 
but  from  Texas,  where  they  have  been  brought  up 
almost  as  nomads,  herders,  and  cattle-drivers  from 
their  infancy."  It  was  evident,  not  only  from 
what  Black  said  to  his  newspaper  interviewer,  but 
from  his  statements  to  his  friends  afterwards,  that 
it  was  these  men  of  what  was  then  the  Far  West 
who  had  attracted  him  most  during  his  American 
visit.  The  love  of  nature  and  of  humanity  in  its 
least  artificial  aspects,  which  had  drawn  him  so 
strongly  to  his  own  Highlands,  clearly  drew  him 

148 


AN    AFTER-DINNER    SPEECH 

from  the  dwellers  in  the  towns  of  the  United  States 
to  the  simple  hunters  and  herders  of  the  West. 

It  is  clear  that  Black  had  made  a  favorable  im- 
pression upon  the  reporters.  He  was  equally  fort- 
unate in  other  quarters,  and  some  friendships  which 
lasted  for  the  rest  of  his  life  were  made  during  this 
short  American  tour.  When  he  came  back,  his 
complexion  was  so  dark,  owing  to  constant  expos- 
ure to  the  sun,  that  he  looked  almost  black.  He 
had  enjoyed  himself  immensely,  and  was  full  of 
good  stories  regarding  the  Americans  he  had  met 
and  the  adventures  that  had  befallen  him  by  the 
way.  I  think  the  story  that  he  liked  best  to  tell 
was  that  of  the  dinner  given  to  him  by  a  small  party 
of  American  admirers  just  before  he  left  New  York 
on  the  return  voyage.  A  certain  American  author 
of  venerable  age,  whose  acquaintance  with  English 
literature  was  probably  more  extensive  than  exact, 
presided  at  this  entertainment,  and  in  proposing 
Black's  health,  after  referring  to  him  as  "the  great- 
est of  living  novelists,"  he  called  upon  the  company 
to  drink  to  their  guest,  "  the  author  of  Lorna  Doone." 
Black's  response  to  the  toast  delighted  the  general 
company  as  much  as  it  puzzled  the  venerable  chair- 
man, for  it  consisted  of  a  warm  eulogy  of  the  dis- 
tinguished novelist  whose  masterpiece  had  been 
mistakenly  attributed  to  him.  It  was  characteristic 
of  Black's  good  sense  and  freedom  from  vanity  that 
in  after-years  he  not  only  delighted  to  tell  this  story 
in  private,  but  repeated  it — once,  at  least — in  public. 
As  an  indication  of  the  class  of  men  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  made  during  his  visit  to  America,  I  may 

149 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

give  some  of  the  names  of  those  present  at  this  dinner. 
They  included  William  C.  Bryant,  S.  J.  Prime, 
Eugene  Lawrence,  J.  Henry  Harper,  Charles  Nord- 
hoff,  William  A.  Seaver,  Bayard  Taylor,  Parke 
Goodwin,  John  W.  Harper,  William  H.  Appleton, 
Watson  R.  Sperry,  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  S. 
S.  Conant,  Edward  Seymour,  C.  Fairchild,  J.  L.  A. 
Ward,  and  Arthur  G.  Sedgwick.  That  Black  left  a 
marked  impression  upon  the  society  with  which  he 
mixed  in  America  is  proved  by  the  vivid  recollec- 
tions of  his  visit  still  retained,  by  many  who  had 
met  him,  after  an  interval  of  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
The  best  description  of  his  journey  is  that  which 
he  wrote  himself  in  the  pages  of  Green  Pastures  and 
Piccadilly.  If  the  characters  of  the  fiction  are  elim- 
inated, the  story  of  the  trip  is  in  all  respects  literally 
true.  The  voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  with  its 
trivial  incidents  and  its  one  beautiful  sunset,  was 
the  voyage  which  Black  took  in  the  company  of  his 
friends,  Brunton  and  Craik.  The  descriptions  of 
the  places  that  he  visited — New  York,  Saratoga, 
Niagara,  Chicago,  and  Denver — are  the  descrip- 
tions of  what  he  himself  saw.  The  bedrooms,  the 
hotel  clerks,  the  drivers  of  the  stage-coaches,  were 
exactly  as  he  paints  them.  Every  detail  was  drawn 
from  life.  That  wonderful  eye  of  his  noted  even 
the  most  insignificant  point  in  the  scene,  and  when 
he  wrote  his  story  all  these  real  features  were  repro- 
duced in  their  proper  places,  each  with  its  due  degree 
of  significance.  There  is  no  mention  in  Green 
Pastures  and  Piccadilly  of  his  actual  companions 
on  his  voyage  across  the  Atlantic,  but  these  living 

150 


UNSEEN    COMPANIONS 

fellow-travellers  were  assuredly  not  the  only  ones 
who  accompanied  him  on  his  tour.  The  people  of 
his  book,  who  included  such  old  favorites  as  Bell 
and  Queen  Tita  and  Von  Rosen,  journeyed  with 
him  every  step  of  the  way,  and  for  those  who  knew 
Black  it  is  not  difficult  to  believe  that  he  was  quite 
as  much  absorbed  in  their  society  as  in  that  of  his 
actual  companions.  He  wove  his  story  in  his  mind 
as  he  went  along;  and  fiction  and  reality  were  so 
closely  interlaced  that  even  he  must  have  found  it 
difficult  to  distinguish  between  them.  The  senti- 
ment which  had  prompted  the  epilogue  to  Madcap 
Violet  was  gradually  gaining  in  strength  and  taking 
firmer  hold  upon  his  mind.  He  had  cultivated  his 
imagination  up  to  a  point  at  which  the  real  and  the 
imaginary  were  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from 
each  other,  and  now,  wherever  he  went,  when  he  was 
engaged  upon  a  novel,  he  carried  with  him  as  con- 
stant companions  the  creatures  who  had  sprung 
from  his  brain.  I  have  no  doubt  that  during  that 
American  tour  he  held  more  conversations  with  Bell 
and  Queen  Tita  than  with  any  living  person  whom 
he  encountered  upon  American  soil,  and  it  is  quite 
certain  that  the  conversations  with  those  who  lived 
only  in  his  imagination  were  as  real  to  him  as  any 
that  he  had  with  people  of  living  flesh  and  blood. 

This  was  the  mystical  side  of  his  character,  his 
inheritance  from  the  people  of  the  hills;  but,  side 
by  side  with  it  was  the  intensely  practical  nature 
which  he  possessed  in  such  full  abundance,  and 
which,  unfortunately,  was  the  aspect  of  his  char- 
acter most  prominent  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.     It 

151 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

was  this  practical  element  that  led  him  to  combine 
sheer  business  with  his  imaginative  work  during 
his  visit  to  the  States.  Those  were  the  days  when 
there  was  no  copyright  law  in  the  great  republic, 
and  the  publisher  in  New  York  or  Boston  was  free 
to  avail  himself  without  let  or  hinderance  of  the 
brain -work  of  any  English  author.  Black,  who 
had  suffered  greatly  from  the  lack  of  any  copyright 
treaty  between  England  and  the  United  States, 
ascertained  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  securing 
copyright  for  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly,  pro- 
vided a  portion  of  the  work  were  written  by  a  citizen 
of  the  United  States  living  in  his  own  country.  Ac- 
cordingly, he  asked  his  friend,  Mr.  Russell  Young, 
the  distinguished  journalist,  who  afterwards  became 
United  States  Minister  at  Pekin,  to  contribute  part 
of  a  chapter  to  his  book.  Mr.  Russell  Young  will- 
ingly agreed  to  do  this,  and,  as  the  result,  copyright 
was  secured  in  the  United  States  for  Green  Pastures 
and  Piccadilly.  I  believe  that  it  was  subsequently 
decided  that  this  method  of  baffling  the  pirates  was 
not  legal.  The  question,  happily,  has  now  no  prac- 
tical importance,  for  the  United  States  has  at  last 
joined  other  civilized  nations  in  recognizing  the 
right  of  an  author  to  the  work  of  his  own  brain. 
Black  triumphed,  however,  by  this  innocent  strat- 
agem, of  which  he  was  very  proud.  Mr.  Russell 
Young's  contribution  to  the  story  was  so  insignifi- 
cant in  extent  that  I  think  it  well  not  to  indicate  it 
more  precisely.  The  real  interest  of  the  incident, 
so  far  as  the  purpose  of  this  biography  is  concerned, 
is  the  proof  it  furnishes  that  Black's  poetic  dream- 

152 


POWERS    OF    OBSERVATION 

ing  and  his  subordination  to  his  vivid  imagination, 
did  not  interfere  with  the  acute  and  practical  busi- 
ness faculty  which  he  undoubtedly  possessed.  This 
was  not  the  only  instance  of  his  attention  to  his 
pecuniary  interests  that  occurred  during  the  Ameri- 
can visit.  When  he  left  the  country  he  had,  as  I 
have  said,  made  many  friends,  among  whom  not 
the  least  valued  were  the  members  of  the  great  pub- 
lishing house  of  Harper  &  Brothers.  With  them  he 
kept  up  a  warm  friendship  and  close  business  rela- 
tions for  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

Sir  Lauder  Brunton,  in  recalling  the  incidents 
of  the  trip,  dwells  with  special  emphasis  not  only 
upon  Black's  wonderful  powers  of  observation,  the 
quickness  and  accuracy  with  which  he  could  take 
a  mental  photograph  of  the  component  parts  of  a 
cloud  or  the  kaleidoscopic  colors  of  a  sunset  or  sun- 
rise, but  upon  the  extraordinary  care  that  he  exer- 
cised in  order  to  obtain  exact  information  upon  any 
subject  with  which  he  had  to  deal,  even  if  it  were 
only  incidentally,  in  his  writings.  I  shall  have 
more  to  say  on  this  point  when  I  come  to  speak  of 
his  method  of  working.  Sir  Lauder  Brunton  re- 
calls the  numerous  inquiries  which  Black  addressed 
to  him  on  subjects  of  which  the  physician  has  special 
knowledge.  If,  in  the  course  of  a  story,  he  had  to 
afflict  one  of  his  characters  with  physical  or  mental 
illness,  he  always  sought  the  most  detailed  and 
exact  information  regarding  the  particular  disease 
of  which  the  fictitious  person  was  the  subject,  from 
Sir  Lauder  Brunton.  He  had  a  horror  of  careless- 
ness and  scamped  work;  and  just  as  the  story  of 

153 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

the  journey  of  his  imaginary  people  through  the 
States  was  really,  in  almost  all  its  details,  the  story 
of  his  own  actual  journey,  so  he  never  subjected 
one  of  his  characters  to  any  abnormal  conditions 
without  satisfying  himself  that  his  description  of 
those  conditions  was  scientifically  accurate. 

During  his  stay  in  the  States,  Black  wrote  to  me 
once  or  twice,  telling  me  of  his  whereabouts  and  of 
his  experiences.  The  letters  have,  unfortunately, 
disappeared,  nor  have  I  been  able  to  meet  with  any 
others  written  during  his  American  journey.  I 
remember,  however,  with  what  enthusiasm  he  spoke 
of  his  enjoyment  of  the  trip,  of  the  unfailing  kind- 
ness of  the  new  friends  he  made  across  the  ocean, 
and  of  the  mental  stimulus  that  travel  among  a  people 
so  bright  in  their  intelligence,  and  so  fresh  in  their 
way  of  looking  at  life,  afforded  him.  Of  the  fact 
that  his  journey  did  him  great  good  physically  I 
had  ocular  demonstration. 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Reform  Club, 

November  6,  1876. 
DEAR  Mr.  CRERAR,— I  have  got  "  bock  again,"  and 
find  the  old  country  still  existing  and  habitable.  To- 
morrow I  propose  to  send  you  a  copy  of  Lady  Silverdale's 
Sweetheart,  and  Other  Stories,  in  which  you  will  find  the 
legend  of  Moira  Fergus.  In  return  might  I  ask  you  to 
send  me,  if  you  can  get  it,  a  copy  of  a  song  called  "  Eileen 
Alannah,"  which  some  men  were  singing  during  our  pas- 
sage in  the  Germanic,  and  which  seems  to  me  a  very  beau- 
tiful melody.  I  was  told  it  was  by  an  American  composer. 
Sarony's  portraits  are  very  much  admired  here;  but  I 

154 


RETURN    TO    ENGLAND 

fancy  the  profile  one,  of  which  I  have  not  got  a  copy,  would 
be  best  for  the  woodcut  which  the  Harpers  propose  to  have 
done.  Perhaps  Sarony  would  kindly  send  me  a  few  of 
each  photograph.  Please  give  my  kind  regards  to  Mr. 
Sutherland.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  that  English  sole  and 
its  accompanying  Johannisberger,  the  latter  especially. 
We  have  a  little  fog  here,  but  nothing  to  that  which  de- 
tained the  Germanic  three  days  inside  Sandy  Hook. 

Yours  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

Black  often  spoke  of  his  last  dinner  on  American 
soil,  and  of  the  hospitality  with  which  he  was  enter- 
tained by  a  host  who  was  at  pains  to  procure  a  sole 
from  England  for  the  delectation  of  his  guest. 

He  was  the  living  picture  of  robust  health  when 
he  came  to  greet  me  at  the  club  on  his  return,  and 
I  noticed  immediately  that,  short  as  had  been  his 
stay  in  the  New  World,  he  had  assimilated  some 
features  of  the  born  American.  He  talked  with  a 
distinct  twang,  delighting  in  the  nasal  intonation, 
and  he  addressed  me  and  his  other  friends  as  "  Siree  " 
or  "Colonel."  It  was,  of  course,  simple  trifling, 
but  it  wras  evidence  to  those  who  knew  him  of  his 
keen  enjoyment  of  his  visit.  He  never  forgot  those 
American  experiences  of  his;  and  in  the  years  that 
followed  some  of  his  dearest  friends  and  most  con- 
stant guests  in  his  own  house  were  citizens  of  the 
United  States.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  fact,  the  follow- 
ing letter  shows  that  when  the  glamour  of  a  first  im- 
pression had  passed  away  he  could  be  critical  in  his 
estimate  of  the  nation  he  had  visited.  Green  Past- 
ures and  Piccadilly,  I  ought  to  say,  was  published 

155 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

serially  in  the  pages  of  the  Examiner,  then  under  the 
editorship  of  his  friend  William  Minto : 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Reform  Club, 

Thursday  {Feb.,  1877). 
MY  DEAR  REID, — It  is  indeed  a  long  time  since  we  heard 
from  you,  and  the  sooner  you  come  up  the  better.  I  warned 
the  Examiner  of  the  necessary  smallness  of  the  instal- 
ments (of  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly),  but  then  it  was 
considered  advisable  to  have  the  story  last  throughout 
the  year.  ...  Do  you  remember  my  writing  to  you  from 
America  about  Dickens's  criticisms  of  that  remarkable 
country?  Since  then  I  have  read  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  and 
have  entirely  altered  my  mind.  Don't  believe  what  any- 
body tells  you ;  there  is  a  great  deal  that  is  marvellously 
accurate  in  M.  C.  about  the  America  of  to-day. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

One  result  of  the  physical  effect  upon  Black  of  his 
American  tour  was  amusing.  Mr.  Pettie,  the  Royal 
Academician,  who  was  one  of  the  closest  of  his  artist 
friends,  was  so  much  struck  by  the  splendid  color  to 
which  he  had  been  burned  by  the  sun,  that  he  asked 
him  to  let  him  paint  him  in  black  armor  as  a  knight 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  Black  readily  consented 
to  stand  as  a  model  for  his  friend,  and  the  result  was 
the  fine  picture  wdrich  was  exhibited  in  the  Royal 
Academy  in  1877,  and  which,  after  being  bought  by 
Sir  William  Ingram,  wras  presented  by  that  gentle- 
man to  the  city  of  Glasgow,  where  it  now  hangs 
upon  the  walls  of  the  City  Hall.  Pettie,  the  most 
generous  of  men,  had  wished  to  present  the  picture 

156 


PORTRAIT    BY    PETTIE 

to  Black,  but  he  declined  to  receive  so  valuable  a 
gift,  and  insisted  that  the  artist  should  dispose  of 
it  in  the  ordinary  way.  Pettie  submitted  to  Black's 
determined  refusal  of  the  valuable  present,  but  he 
subsequently  painted  a  portrait  of  the  novelist  in 
ordinary  dress  which  he  induced  him  to  accept. 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Airlie  House, 

Thursday  (1877). 
MY  DEAR  REID, — I  send  you  a  few  notes  on  the  Academy, 
but  I  have  found  the  thing  almost  impossible,  as  I  have 
fully  described  in  the  special  correspondence  nearly  all 
the  principal  pictures  of  the  year  as  I  happened  to  see  them 
from  time  to  time.  .  .  .  You  will  see  I  have  mentioned 
(page  3)  Pettie's  "  Knight  of  the  Seventeenth  Century."  If 
you  like  to  add  that  the  head  is  a  portrait  of  your  humble 
servant,  good  and  well;  it  is  possible  some  of  the  papers 
may  do  that.  ...  I  want  to  add  a  word  about  your  gloomy 
forecasts  and  sense  of  worry.  All  that  is  one  of  the  surest 
signs  of  mental  depression  arising  from  excessive  brain- 
work;  and  it  will  increase  if  you  don't  mind.  A  man  in 
good  mental  health  laughs  at  small  worries  which,  when 
in  unsound  mental  health,  he  regards  as  stupendous 
troubles.  I  have  no  doubt  you  have  attacks  of  sleepless- 
ness, too.  I  "  have  been  there,"  as  the  Yankees  sa}\ 
You  have  had  one  warning ;  you  ought  seriously  to  take 

heed  not  to  induce  another. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

1  have  given  the  foregoing  letter  because  it  con- 
tains the  first  direct  allusion  to  any  failure  in  Black's 
physical  and  mental  health.  The  American  jour- 
ney had  done  him  good;  but  undoubtedly  he  now 

157 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

began  to  show  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  some  signs 
of  the  strain  which  his  work  imposed  upon  him. 
There  was  little  as  yet  to  cause  any  alarm  to  his  wife 
and  his  friends.  It  might  possibly  have  been  better 
if  he  had  himself  taken  the  alarm,  for  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  it  was  soon  after  this  period  that  the 
first  signs  became  visible  of  the  nervous  break-down 
which  led  in  the  end  to  his  entire  collapse  and  the 
shortening  of  his  days.  The  story  of  that  break- 
down is,  however,  associated  with  another  and  more 
important  work  than  Green  Pastures  and  Picca- 
dilly. In  the  mean  time  it  may  be  noted  that  in 
this  spring  of  1877  he  had  the  misfortune  to  sprain 
his  ankle — an  accident  which  led  to  his  confinement 
to  the  house  for  some  weeks.  It  was  his  first  ex- 
perience of  the  kind,  and  he  fretted  against  his  evil 
fate.  "I  am  beginning  to  get  out  now — in  a  trap," 
he  wrote  to  a  friend,  "but  this  confinement  to  the 
house  has  brought  me  down  to  a  suicidal  pitch  of 
low  spirits,  and  I  don't  see  what  use  there  is  in  life 
or  anything  else.  If  1  had  a  breath  of  Highland 
air  and  a  glass  of  Highland  whiskey,  I  might  re- 
vive." It  was  not  until  the  autumn  that  he  was 
able  to  get  the  Highland  air  for  which  he  longed 
so  earnestly.  He  and  Colin  Hunter  joined  in  a 
yachting  excursion  on  the  west  coast,  and  visited 
some  of  the  scenes  that  he  was  anxious  to  incor- 
porate in  the  story  that  he  was  now  beginning  to 
weave  in  his  brain — a  story  that  was  to  have  a  mark- 
ed effect  upon  his  own  health,  and  consequently 
an  influence  upon  his  whole  future  life — Macleod 
of  Dare.     During  his  time  on  the  yacht  he  and  his 

158 


A    YACHTING    TRIP 

old  friend  enjc^ed  themselves  thoroughly,  and 
Black  entered  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  boy  into 
the  sport  which  the  islands  and  lochs  of  the  west 
coast  afforded  him.  His  great  ambition  was  to 
shoot  a  seal,  and  he  spent  endless  hours  in  the  at- 
tempt to  accomplish  this  feat.  He  was  only,  I  be- 
lieve, a  fair,  not  a  first-rate,  shot.  Perhaps  he  had 
begun  too  late  in  life  ever  to  become  one.  But  he 
had,  at  least,  the  first  of  all  a  sportsman's  qualifica- 
tions— an  indomitable  pluck  and  perseverance.  In 
whatever  sport  he  was  engaged  he  threw  himself 
into  it  with  a  zest  so  keen,  an  enthusiasm  so  intense, 
that  it  was  a  joy  to  all  his  friends  to  watch  him,  and 
few  there  were  among  them  who  were  not  infected 
by  something  of  his  own  wild  spirits.  And  if  his 
long  hours  of  patient  watching,  stretched  prone 
upon  some  adamantine  rock  by  the  margin  of  the 
sea,  brought  him  no  other  reward  than  a  glimpse 
of  a  seal  far  beyond  the  range  of  his  gun,  he  never 
allowed  his  disappointment  to  affect  his  temper. 
He  had  a  happier  resource  in  his  disappointments 
than  this.  If  he  had  to  find  solace  for  his  unre- 
quited labor  and  indulgence  in  the  thought  that 
the  struggle  rather  than  the  prize  constitutes  the 
best  reward  of  the  aspirant,  he  had  also  the  intense 
joy  of  being  able,  in  that  inner  world  in  which  he 
dwelt  apart  from  his  fellows,  to  crown  his  efforts 
with  the  success  that  they  deserved.  In  his  novels, 
at  all  events,  his  heroes  seldom  missed  fire,  or  failed 
to  land  their  fish;  and  some  of  the  most  delightful 
sporting  scenes  in  Macleod  of  Dare  and  White  Wings, 
to  say  nothing  of  other  stories  of  his,  are  founded 

159 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

upon  his  own  abortive  efforts  with  gun  or  rod.  Thus 
he  never  permitted  his  own  bad  luck  as  a  sports- 
man to  damp  the  ardor  of  his  enthusiasm,  and  Colin 
Hunter  remembers  to  the  present  day  how,  during 
that  first  yachting  trip  on  the  west  coast,  Black, 
his  want  of  success  notwithstanding,  was  the  most 
delightful  of  companions,  brimming  over  with  en- 
thusiasm, with  high  spirits,  with  an  insatiable  in- 
terest in  every  detail  of  the  beautiful  scenery  around 
him,  and  in  the  habits  of  all  the  living  creatures 
that  came  within  his  ken ;  carolling  his  own  rhymes, 
fresh  from  his  brain  as  he  lounged  upon  deck  or 
strolled  on  the  shore,  and  plunging  in  a  moment 
from  the  gay  trivialities  of  his  lighter  moods  into 
the  abysmal  depths  of  metaphysical  speculation. 
In  such  hours  of  deliberate  self-abandonment  those 
who  saw  him  began  to  understand  the  meaning  of 
the  Scotch  word  "fey." 

In  the  winter  of  1877-78  Black  had  reached  a  point 
in  the  writing  of  Macleod  of  Dare  at  which  he  found 
it  necessary  that  he  should  again  visit  Scotland 
for  the  purpose  of  seeing  the  country  in  which  the 
scene  of  the  plot  is  laid  under  its  winter  garb.  He 
was  accompanied  by  his  friend  Mr.  E.  D.  J.  Wil- 
son, to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  following  account 
of  the  expedition : 

"It  was  early  in  January,  1878,  that  Black  pro- 
posed to  me  to  accompany  him  to  the  island  of  Mull, 
in  which  he  had  laid  the  scene  of  Macleod  of  Dare, 
then  beginning  to  appear  in  one  of  the  magazines. 
To  keep  the  story  true  to  local  color,  he  wished  to  see 
the  place  in  its  winter  dress.     I  happened  to  have 

160 


TRIP    TO    ISLAND    OF     MULL 

the  chance  of  a  couple  of  weeks'  holidaj^,  and  was 
anxious  to  avail  myself  of  it  before  Parliament  met 
for  a  session  which  promised  to  be  exciting.  Black 
also  wanted  to  get  away  from  town  for  a  while,  the 
nervous  strain  of  his  work  telling  upon  him  rather 
severely  when  he  had  to  deal  with  painful  problems 
and  pathetic  situations.  One  day,  after  lunching 
at  the  Reform  Club,  I  suggested  to  him  that  we 
should  run  over  for  ten  or  twelve  days  to  Paris, 
a  proposal  which  he  emphatically  negatived,  never 
having  any  liking  for  the  French  capital  or  its  works 
and  ways.  He  offered,  as  an  alternative,  a  visit  to 
Brighton,  or  some  other  watering-place  on  the 
south  coast,  which  had  no  attractions  for  me.  He 
then  said,  as  I  thought  by  way  of  a  joke,  '  You  had 
better  come  with  me  next  week  to  the  island  of  Mull.' 
The  matter  dropped  for  a  moment,  but  later  in  the 
day  he  explained  that  he  was  really  serious,  and 
that  he  intended  to  make  the  expedition  for  the  rea- 
son already  mentioned.  The  singularity  of  the 
plan  pleased  me,  and  I  closed  with  the  proposal  at 
once.  A  few  days  later,  after  a  send-off  dinner  at 
the  Midland  Grand  Hotel,  where  Mrs.  Black  and 
my  wife  came  to  bid  us  good-bye,  we  left  by  the 
sleeping-car  for  Glasgow.  We  .sat  up  late,  while 
Black  smoked,  and  we  talked  de  omnibus  rebus 
et  quibusdam  aliis.  When  we  turned  in  we  slept 
soundly,  and  woke  early  next  day  to  find  ourselves 
in  Glasgow.  We  had  left  London  dismal  with  the 
usual  blend  of  fog  and  frost,  but  Glasgow,  at  half- 
past  seven  on  a  winter's  morning,  was  infinitely 
drearier.  Black,  I  think,  was  put  out  that  I  should 
n  161 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

see  his  native  city  for  the  first  time  under  such  un- 
favorable conditions,  but  an  excellent  Scotch  break- 
fast soon  put  us  on  good  terms  with  the  world. 
Before  long  we  had  left  the  damp  and  smoky  atmos- 
phere of  the  great  city  behind  us,  and  were  steaming 
along,  alone  in  a  comfortable  compartment,  towards 
the  north  and  west.  It  was  a  crisp,  bright,  wintry 
day;  the  air  was  exhilarating,  and  the  scenery  had 
a  beauty  of  its  own  which  the  glories  of  spring  and 
autumn  could  not  surpass.  We  went  at  a  quiet 
rate  by  Stirling,  Callander,  Lochearn  Head,  and 
Killin  Junction  to  Dalmally,  where,  at  that  time, 
the  railway  stopped.  There  we  took  the  coach  to 
Oban  by  the  northern  shore  of  Loch  Awe,  through 
the  Pass  of  Brander — not  yet  re-echoing  to  the  whis- 
tle of  the  steam-engine — and  south  of  Loch  Ettive 
to  our  destination.  I  had  never  seen  Black  so  frank- 
ly abandoned  to  the  joy  of  living.  All  the  way  in 
the  railway  and  on  the  coach  his  trained  and  vigi- 
lant eye  was  on  the  watch  for  every  detail  of  form 
and  color,  every  aspect  of  beauty  of  that  wonder- 
ful winter's  day.  From  time  to  time  he  used  to 
challenge  me  triumphantly,  and  ask  if  anything 
in  my  beloved  Switzerland  could  match  this  or  that 
picture,  the  delicacy  or  the  sublimity  of  which  I  was 
certainly  not  minded  to  deny.  After  more  than 
three-and-twenty  years,  I  have  a  vivid  memory  of 
the  lovely  vision  of  Loch  Lubnaig,  with  the  rich 
golden-yellow  of  the  dead  bracken  reflected  in  a 
crystal  mirror  under  a  sky  as  blue  and  cloudless 
as  any  that  ever  hung  over  Italy.  Black's  keen 
eyes  blazed  with  delight,  hardly  capable  of  being 

162 


A  HIGHLANDER  IN  TEMPERAMENT 

translated  into  speech,  while  he  was  raised  to  a  high 
pitch  of  excitement,  and  almost  threw  himself  out 
of  the  window  as  a  black  cock  and  four  or  five  gray- 
hens  rose  a  few  yards  off  from  some  mouldering 
and  abandoned  shocks  of  oats.  When  we  took  the 
coach  at  Dalmally,  he  was  still  more  eager  and  im- 
passioned in  his  enjoyment  of  the  land  he  knew  so 
well,  especially  when  he  found  that  he  could  im- 
part to  another  something  of  his  own  feelings,  and 
elicit  a  sympathetic  and  intelligent  response.  The 
view  of  Kilchurn  Castle  in  the  falling  lights  of  even- 
ing, the  majestic  mass  of  Ben  Cruachan  with  rose- 
colored  clouds  touching  its  sides  and  summit,  the 
birch-trees  in  the  Pass  of  Brander,  lovely  in  their 
winter  nakedness  as  in  their  greenery  of  spring 
and  their  autumn  gold,  seemed  almost  to  intoxi- 
cate him.  I  felt  then,  and  I  have  never  ceased  to 
feel,  that  Black,  in  spite  of  his  birth  among  the  un- 
lovely surroundings  of  Glasgow  and  his  life  as  a 
man  of  letters  in  the  distant  south,  was  essentially 
a  Highlander  in  temperament,  in  character,  in  heart 
and  soul.  Long  afterwards  he  repeated  to  me  with 
deep  feeling  those  lines  so  often  quoted  since : 

From  the  lone  sheiling  on  the  misty  island 
Mountains  divide  us  and  a  world  of  seas ; 

But  still  our  hearts  are  true,  our  hearts  are  Highland, 
And  in  our  dreams  we  seek  the  Hebrides. 

I  could  not  tell  him  then — what  he  wanted  to  know 
— who  was  the  author  of  this  striking  quatrain, 
which  I  believe  was  written  by  Mr.  John  Skelton. 
Black  himself  had  a  passionate  love  for  the  High- 

163 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

land  people,  and  especially  for  those  of  the  western 
coasts  and  islands. 

"  For  very  good  reasons,  indeed,  he  was  most  pop- 
ular with  the  people  of  the  west  coast,  for  whom  he 
had  done  something  like  what  Scott  did  for  Edin- 
burgh and  Tweedside  and  the  Trossachs,  and  what 
Wordsworth  did  for  the  lake  country.  At  Oban, 
though  it  was  mid-winter,  we  were  welcomed  with 
open  arms.  The  large  hotels  were  all  closed,  but 
the  Alexandra — a  comfortable  hostelry  which  Black 
had  made  his  quarters  in  former  years — opened 
some  rooms  for  us,  and  sent  in  some  servants,  not 
without  the  key  of  the  cellar!  We  were  well  enter- 
tained there  during  the  few  days  we  spent  in  Oban, 
which  was  empty  of  many  residents  and  of  all  tour- 
ists, and  was  chiefly  filled  with  boatmen  and  fisher- 
folk,  for  every  one  of  whom  Black  had  a  kindly  word, 
sometimes  risking  an  excursion  into  Gaelic,  partly 
for  my  behoof.  Though  the  days  were  short,  and, 
accustomed  to  London  hours,  we  did  not  get  up  too 
early,  we  managed  to  have  some  delightful  strolls 
and  talks.  The  weather,  in  its  way,  was  perfect; 
at  all  events,  for  a  little  while.  The  soft  and  gra- 
cious air  of  the  Gulf  Stream  lapped  us  in  a  dreamy 
indolence;  and  if  the  visits  of  sunshine  were  rare, 
they  were  all  the  more  fascinating.  I  have  recol- 
lections of  gleams  of  sudden  light  on  Kerrera  and 
towards  Dunolly  Castle  that  were  perfect  while  they 
lasted,  and  left  one  content  when  they  vanished. 
One  evening — it  must  have  been  about  the  17th 
of  January — the  air  was  so  balmy  and  winning 
that  it  induced  us  to  leave  our  overcoats  behind, 

164 


THE     WINTER     "PACKET 

and  to  ramble,  as  the  afternoon  declined,  along  the 
shore,  watching  the  sea-birds,  towards  which,  as 
towards  almost  every  other  type  of  free  nature, 
Black's  imaginative  and  observing  powers  were  ir- 
resistibly drawn.  After  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon we  sat  and  smoked  on  some  rocks  not  far  from 
the  house,  then  empty,  which  belonged  to  Professor 
Blackie.  It  was  a  perfect  evening,  tender  as  an  ideal 
English  April  before  the  rigors  of  May  and  its  east 
winds  come  upon  us.  Black  was  absolutely  happy, 
dreamy,  almost  silent,  except  when  he  stirred  him- 
self up  to  point  out  to  me  the  scarts  and  sea  piets 
far  away  on  the  shore,  and  to  identify  them  through 
our  field-glass.  I  can  see  at  this  moment  the  midges 
floating  before  us  as  we  looked  out  on  Kerrera  in  the 
middle  of  January. 

"I  suppose  this  wonderful  spring  in  the  lap  of 
winter  beguiled  us  too  long  at  Oban,  for  Black,  one 
evening,  after  consultation  with  our  solitary  waiter, 
a  delightful  Highlander,  genial,  attentive,  and  with- 
out any  touch  of  presumption,  announced  that  we 
must  go  on  to  Mull  the  next  morning  by  '.  the  packet. ' 
The  steamer  was  only  on  for  the  winter  service  once 
a  week.  The  'packet,'  Black  explained,  was  an 
open  boat  in  ballast,  of  the  ordinary  hooker  type, 
which  carried  over  the  mails  to  Mull  in  the  winter 
season  when  there  was  no  steamer  running.  It 
promised  to  be  a  pleasant  trip,  if  somewhat  rough, 
and  in  the  fine  weather  we  were  enjoying  the  only 
difficulty  appeared  to  be  that  we  might  have  too 
little  wind,  to  Black's  infinite  disgust,  as  he  feared 
we   should  have  a  slow  and  dull  run  across  the 

165 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

Channel.  But  our  doubts  were  soon  dissipated,  for 
as  soon  as  we  got  outside  the  natural  breakwater  of 
Kerrera  into  the  open  water,  the  sky  and  the  breeze 
freshened,  rising  presently  to  about  half  a  gale. 
The  'packet/  a  clumsy  boat,  not  very  skilfully 
steered  by  the  old  man  in  charge,  soon  became  ex- 
ceedingly lively;  and  before  long  we  were  getting 
big  waves  on  board  every  half-minute,  while  our 
wraps  were  soon  drenched,  and  the  condition  of  our 
valises  not  at  all  improved.  Black's  language  be- 
came highly  unparliamentary,  especially  when  a 
sudden  lurch  of  the  boat  and  a  heavy  rush  of  water 
knocked  him  off  the  thwart  on  which  he  was  sitting 
and  flung  him  roughly  down  on  the  stone  ballast. 
Meanwhile  the  boy  and  his  grandfather  carried  on 
a  noisy  altercation  in  Gaelic  —  in  which  the  word 
diaoul  played  a  principal  part — the  former  at  last 
snatching  the  tiller  from  the  old  man,  and  pushing 
him  back  to  the  management  of  the  sail.  Whether 
it  was  that  the  change  was  for  the  better,  or  that 
we  got  shelter  as  we  neared  the  coast  of  Mull,  our 
rough  experiences  quickly  ceased.  We  landed  at 
a  place  called,  I  think,  Grass  Point,  a  short  distance 
to  the  south  of  Duart  Headland,  where  the  beacon 
dedicated  to  Black's  memory  now  blazes.  The  mail- 
bags,  our  luggage,  and  ourselves  were  put  ashore. 
We  bade  farewell  to  the  '  packet '  and  its  little  crew, 
and  packed  our  persons  and  our  portmanteaus 
into  a  'conveyance'  which  met  us,  by  previous  ar- 
rangement, at  the  landing-place.  It  was  still  early, 
but  we  did  not  stay  to  ask  for  anything  to  eat  or 
drink  at  the  poor-looking  cottages  of  Grass  Point. 

166 


A     ROUGH      JOURNEY 

Black,  who  undertook  all  the  details  of  our  travel 
beyond  Oban,  was  sure  that  we  should  get  a  plain 
but  excellent  luncheon  at  the  half-way  house,  a  sol- 
itary inn  at  the  head  of  Loch  Scridian,  which  sep- 
arates the  Ross  of  Mull,  where  we  were  making  our 
way,  from  the  main  mass  of  the  island.  Our  desti- 
nation was  the  village  of  Bunessan,  near  the  granite 
quarries  at  the  extremity  of  the  peninsula,  and  close 
to  high  ground,  looking  west  to  Iona  and  north 
to  Staffa.  Our  vehicle,  locally  called  'a  machine/ 
was  a  rough  dog-cart,  drawn  by  a  rougher  pony, 
which,  I  fancy,  had  never  been  between  shafts  before, 
and  driven  by  a  most  good-tempered  lad,  the  rough- 
est of  the  whole  turnout.  We  started  in  high  spir- 
its, for  the  weather  seemed  to  be  improving,  and  as 
we  got  up  from  the  lower  grounds  to  the  hill-side 
where  the  track  led,  Black  became  extremely  ani- 
mated in  his  talk.  Exhilarated  by  the  mountain  air, 
he  poured  out  a  wealth  of  legendary  and  historical 
lore  about  the  island  and  its  chief  families,  the  Mac- 
leods  and  others,  and  pointed  out  with  inexhaustible 
verve  the  curious  touches  of  beauty  in  the  wild  land- 
scape^— so  different  from  that  of  England,  or  even  of 
the  mainland  of  Argyllshire. 

"The  journey  was  rough,  but  pleasant.  Our 
pony  rattled  us  untiringly  over  the  stony  road, 
which  he  sometimes  tried  to  leave  for  the  open  hill- 
side, endangering  the  equilibrium  of  '  the  machine,' 
and  extracting  copious  language  from  two  travellers. 
When  I  remarked  on  this  propensity  to  the  driver, 
he  replied,  with  a  kindly  grin,  'Ah,  sir,  he  likes  fine 
to  be  ganging  oop  the  braes.'     Early  in  the  day  we 

167 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

had  munched  our  sandwiches  and  drained  our  flasks 
with  keen  appetite,  and  reckoned  that  we  should 
lunch  comfortably  at  the  inn  above  mentioned — 
about  sixteen  miles,  as  Black  calculated,  from  our 
landing-place — and  that  we  should  cover  the  same 
distance  to  Bunessan,  in  another  vehicle  and  with  a 
fresh  horse,  in  time  for  dinner.  The  sky  grew  dark- 
er, the  wind  keener  and  shriller,  and  the  landscape 
drearier  as  we  neared  the  bare-looking  hostelry  at 
the  head  of  Loch  Scridian.  There  a  cruel  disappoint- 
ment awaited  us — we  were  very  hungry — and  Black, 
for  once,  seemed  to  be  half  ashamed  of  his  country. 
The  host,  a  gaunt  and  dismal  man,  met  us  not  at  all 
with  the  aspect  of  one  ready  to  welcome  the  coming 
guest.  We  had  hoped  for  chops  of  mountain  mutton, 
or  other  delights  of  that  simple  sort,  but  would  have 
been  quite  content  with  plenty  of  eggs  and  bacon 
and  bread  and  butter.  When  the  landlord  told  us 
that  there  was  not  a  scrap  of  meat  or  bacon,  or  butter, 
or  even  bread,  in  his  house,  that  a  '  big  wedding ' 
had  been  there  the  previous  day,  had  eaten  up  every- 
thing, and  drunk  all  the  whiskey,  except  a  little  that, 
as  he  candidly  remarked,  was  new  and  bad,  and  that 
all  he  could  offer  us  was  some  boiled  eggs  and  hard 
biscuits,  we  looked  wofully  at  one  another  for  an 
instant,  and  then  burst  out  laughing.  It  was  an 
unappetizing  meal — for  a  moment  it  looked  as  if 
no  salt  would  be  found  for  us — but  we  were  very 
hungry,  and  made  the  best  of  it.  We  hastened  to 
start  as  soon  as  possible,  for  a  change  of  weather 
was  evidently  at  hand.  Our  new  driver  was  silent, 
and  our  new  horse  slow,  and  soon  after  we  started 

168 


A     WARM     WELCOME 

a  few  flakes,  ever  growing,  began  to  come  down,  and 
to  forebode  a  heavy  snowfall.     The  road  along  Loch 
Scridian  can  never  be  a  very  pleasant  one,  but  on 
that  evening  the  surroundings  put  Black's  enthusi- 
asm to  silence.     He  did  not  even  notice  the  sea- 
birds  that  screamed  around  us,  and  as  for  scenery, 
there  was  no  possibility  of  looking  five  yards  ahead. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  set  our  teeth  and 
to  sit  in  silence,  white  figures  all  over,  with  a  nasty 
little  snowdrift  lodged  between  one's  collar  and  one's 
neck.      The  night  fell,  and  we  drove  on  and  on 
through  the   darkness  and   the   snow,   impatiently 
computing  how  much  of  the  journey  we  had  got 
through.     At   last   we   turned   a   corner,    and   saw 
bright  lights  shining  behind  the  red  curtains  of  the 
comfortable  little  inn  at  Bunessan.     The  excellent 
people  who  kept  the  house  had  not  expected  us  in 
such  weather,  and  were  just  sitting  down  to  supper — 
I  think  with  the  local  school-master  and  a  sub-agent 
of  the  Duke  of  Argyll.     They  gave  up  the  room  and 
the  food  to  us  at  once;  we  had  changed  our  clothes 
in  a  trice,  and  came  down  in  the  best  of  tempers  to 
what  seemed  after  our  long  day  a  banquet  of  Lu- 
cullus.     We  had  a  bottle  of  champagne,  and  as  we 
drew  our  chairs   up  to  the  fireside  Black  became 
absolutely  eloquent  in  the  attempt  to  persuade  me 
that  there  was  no  place  in  the  world  more  delightful 
for  winter  travelling  than  Mull.     But  he  could  not 
help   laughing    when    I    murmured,    '  Boiled    eggs, 
hard    biscuits,    and    new    whiskey.'     Our    stay    at 
Bunessan  was,  to  a  great  extent,  spoiled  by  bad 
weather,  but  Black,  I  believe,  succeeded  in  noting 

169 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

the  points  he  required  for  his  novel.  It  continued 
to  snow  from  time  to  time,  and  though  we  walked 
perseveringly  the  sodden  condition  of  the  ground 
was  trying.  The  sea  was  rough,  with  sudden  squalls 
— though  in  the  intervals  of  brightness  it  was  as- 
tonishingly lovely — and  we  had  to  abandon  our 
project  of  visits  by  boat  to  Staffa  and  Iona.  But 
Black  was  content,  and  I  was  content  with  him. 
We  got  interesting  views  of  the  more  distant  islands 
from  some  of  the  low  hills  around.  Once  one  of  the 
local  people — I  am  not  sure  if  it  was  the  school- 
master— took  us  for  a  rocky  and  slippery  scramble 
to  a  point  just  opposite  Staffa,  and  brought  us  home 
over  a  very  doubtful  bit  of  bogland,  where  we  '  shook 
up  our  livers,'  as  Black  used  to  say,  by  jumping 
from  tussock  to  tussock,  that  quivered  under  our 
feet  as  we  landed.  Our  guide  pleasantly  remarked, 
when  we  were  about  half-way  across,  that  the  bog 
was  ten  feet  deep,  and  that  cattle  were  often  drowned 
there. 

"Everybody  told  us — and  it  turned  out  to  be  per- 
fectly true — that  we  had  not  done  with  the  snow. 
So  we  reluctantly  brought  our  visit  to  Bunessan  to 
a  close.  There  was  a  further  fall  the  night  before 
we  left  for  another  long  day's  drive,  which  Black 
estimated  at  over  thirty-two  miles,  to  Salen,  on  the 
northern  coast  of  the  island,  where  we  were  to  catch 
the  weekly  steamer  for  Oban.  We  had  thought  of 
going  to  Tobermorey  and  taking  the  boat  there, 
but  the  reports  of  the  state  of  the  roads  were  doubt- 
ful, and  it  was  uncertain  whether  we  should  not 
miss  our  connection.     The  morning  we  started  for 

170 


SCOTCH    CANDOR 

Salen  it  was  fine  and  clear,  but  cold;  and,  if  my 
memory  serves,  we  had  a  much  better  conveyance 
than  on  out  first  journey.  As  we  were  leaving  I 
asked  one  of  the  young  women  at  the  inn  to  fill  my 
flask  with  whiskey  and  water,  as  I  knew  we  should 
have  few  baiting-places  for  many  hours.  Fortu- 
nately, I  tasted  it  before  I  left,  and  found  that  it 
was  undiluted  spirits.  I  reproached  the  girl  with 
not  having  put  in  two-thirds  water,  when  she  said, 
with  a  touch  of  pathos  in  her  voice,  'Ah,  sir,  it  is 
too  reduced  already.'  Black  was  greatly  pleased 
with  this  answer,  and  begged  me  always  to  bear 
it  in  mind  as  a  proof  of  the  candor  and  conscien- 
tiousness of  the  Scotch  even  in  the  trials  of  the  inn- 
keeping  business.  Our  drive  to  Salen  was  through 
a  white  world,  though  the  roads  were  not  as  much 
obstructed  as  we  had  feared.  We  passed  close 
under  the  towering  sides  of  Ben  More — a  dazzling 
mass  of  crystal  and  silver.  I  think  one  of  the  illus- 
trations to  Macleod  of  Dare  was  intended  to  give  a 
picture  of  this  scene.  The  day  was  not  particularly 
cold,  in  spite  of  the  surrounding  snow,  and  there 
were  some  points  of  peculiar  beauty;  but,  on  the 
whole,  we  agreed  that  a  snowy  landscape  must  be 
monotonous,  and  that  it  tries  the  eye  after  a  while. 

"There  is  little  more  to  say  of  our  journey.  We 
were  fairly  comfortable  at  Salen,  but  the  steamer 
was  six  hours  late  on  the  following  day,  and  we 
might  have  been  bored  while  we  waited,  as  we  dared 
not  go  for  a  walk  for  fear  of  missing  the  boat,  had 
it  not  been  for  the  amusing  antics  of  some  twenty 
Highland  drovers  who  had  been  buying  cattle  at 

171 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

Mull.  They  drank  half-glasses  of  whiskey,  and 
wrangled  up  to  the  top  of  their  voices  in  Gaelic  with 
so  much  apparent  passion  that  I  was  afraid  there 
would  be  a  deadly  quarrel.  Black,  who  knew  them 
better,  assured  me  that  all  the  excitement  would 
evaporate  in  words,  and  that  not  a  blow  would  be 
struck.  They  were  certainly  all  as  good  friends 
when  they  got  on  board  the  steamer  as  if  they  had 
never  quarrelled.  That  night  we  got  back  to  the 
Oban  Hotel,  and  to  the  commonplace,  super-civil- 
ized world.  I  think  we  both  were  a  little  sorry. 
There  was  another  snowfall  shortly  after  our  coach 
got 'to  Dalmally,  and  at  several  points  on  the  way 
to  Glasgow  it  seemed  as  if  we  might  be  snowed  up 
at  some  remote  place  on  the  line.  But  this  experi- 
ence was  denied  us.  Not  many  hours  later,  we 
were  driving  back  to  our  respective  homes  in  London. 
Black  and  I  often  had  talks  in  later  days  about  this 
time,  which  remains  among  the  pleasantest  of  my 
memories." 


CHAPTER  V 

BRIGHTON  LIFE 

Effect  of  Writing  on  the  Nervous  System — The  Artist's  Tribute 
to  Macleod  of  Dare — Black  and  the  Reviewers — His  Defence 
of  Tragedy  in  Fiction — Letters  of  Remonstrance  from  Admirers 
— Leaves  Camberwell  Grove — Rooms  in  Buckingham  Street — 
Night  Talks  over  the  Thames — White  Wings — Goes  to  Brighton 
to  Live — Paston  House — The  Cliff  Walk  to  Rottingdean — The 
Old  Pier — Mode  of  Work — The  Sense  of  Humor  in  the  Low- 
land Scot — Visit  to  Leeds — Shandon  Bells — Dedication  to 
Barry's  Memory — President  Garfield's  Message  to  Black — 
Visit  to  Egypt  —  Nature  -  painting  in  the  Highlands  —  Mr. 
Bradbury's  Reminiscences. 

READERS  of  Macleod  of  Dare  will  be  able,  from 
Mr.  Wilson's  spirited  narrative,  to  picture  for 
themselves  the  source  of  some  of  the  most  strik- 
ing scenes  described  in  that  powerful  and  original 
book.  It  was  a  book  which  cost  its  author  more 
than  any  other  work  that  he  had  yet  produced.  It 
laid  hold  upon  his  own  imagination  even  more  pow- 
erfully than  upon  the  imaginations  of  his  readers. 
The  tragedy  of  his  hero,  suffering  the  torments  of 
wounded  faith  and  pride  in  that  wild  and  wintry 
island  of  Mull,  was  a  real  tragedy  to  Black  him- 
self ;  and  when  he  came,  in  his  prosaic  home  at  Den- 
mark Hill,  to  interweave  the  scenes  which  he  and 
Mr.  Wilson  had  visited  together  into  the  story  of 
Macleod  of  Dare,  his  nerves  suffered  as  though  he 

173 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

were  writing  of  his  own  actual  experiences.  He 
was  wont  to  say  in  after -days  that  the  book  had 
added  ten  years  to  his  life.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
the  way  was  prepared  by  the  stress  of  that  tragic 
creation  for  the  entrance  of  that  obscure  nervous 
disease  which  afterwards  afflicted  him.  He  was 
paying  the  penalty  for  that  Celtic  fervor  which, 
unknown  to  the  outer  world,  possessed  his  soul. 
Without  it,  he  could  never  have  written  as  he  did, 
could  never  have  made  the  story  burn  itself  into 
the  minds  of  his  readers  as  a  tale  of  real  life.  But 
without  it,  he  would  have  been  spared  not  a  little  of 
mental  and  bodily  anguish.  So  shaken  were  his 
nerves  by  the  writing  of  Macleod  of  Dare  that  for 
many  months  after  the  book  was  finished  he  could 
not  bear  to  ride  in  a  hansom  cab  in  the  streets  of 
London,  and  it  is  certain  that  he  never  quite  re- 
covered the  fine  virility  which  was  one  of  his  dis- 
tinguishing characteristics  as  a  young  man.  Yet 
there  were  many  pleasant  circumstances  connected 
with  the  writing  and  publication  of  the  book  that 
went  far  to  recompense  him  for  the  suffering  which 
it  undoubtedly  caused  him.  The  story  appeared 
serially  in  Good  Words  in  the  year  1878,  and  it  was 
at  once  successful.  People  sought,  indeed,  to  iden- 
tify the  heroine — the  beautiful  actress  who  bewitch- 
ed Macleod,  and  in  the  end  drove  him  to  madness 
and  death  —  with  one  of  the  most  charming  and 
famous  women  then  upon  the  stage.  Black  was 
almost  as  indignant  in  his  repudiation  of  this  iden- 
tification as  in  his  denial  of  the  claim  of  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  innkeeper  at  Garanahine  to  be  the  original 

174 


AN     ARTISTIC     TRIBUTE 

of  Sheila.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  never  met 
the  lady  in  question  at  the  time  when  he  wrote  Mac- 
leod  of  Dare,  and  his  fickle  heroine  was  a  creature 
of  his  own  imagination  and  of  his  study  of  women 
as  a  whole.  One  incident  connected  with  the  serial 
publication  of  the  novel  gave  him  special  and  life- 
long pleasure.  He  had,  as  I  have  already  stated, 
won  first  the  admiration  and  then  the  friendship 
of  many  of  the  leading  artists  of  the  day.  Among 
all  his  readers  none  were  more  enthusiastic  in  their 
appreciation  of  his  powers  than  these  men,  who  of 
all  others  were  best  able  to  judge  of  the  supreme 
skill  of  his  descriptive  writing  and  his  unequalled 
power  of  making  true  and  living  pictures  of  the 
scenes  he  painted  with  his  pen.  It  occurred  to  one 
of  these  gentlemen — if  I  mistake  not  it  was  John 
Pettie — that  the  brethren  of  the  brush  might  pay 
a  graceful  compliment  to  the  artist  in  words  whom 
they  esteemed  so  highly  by  jointly  illustrating  the 
story  of  Macleod  of  Dare  in  the  pages  of  Good  Words. 
This  idea  was  carried  into  effect  with  striking  suc- 
cess, and  some  of  the  most  famous  artists  of  the 
day  united  to  give  pictorial  expression  to  the  char- 
acters and  scenery  of  the  story.  I  do  not  know 
that  the  like  compliment  was  ever  paid  to  any  other 
novelist.  Black  was  greatly  touched  by  it,  as  he 
had  good  reason  to  be.  Most  of  the  celebrated  paint- 
ers added  to  their  generous  tribute  by  presenting 
the  original  drawings  for  the  story  to  Black,  and 
they  now  hang  upon  the  walls  of  his  house  at 
Brighton,  a  unique  memento  of  the  place  he  had 
secured    in    the   affections   and    good-will    of   those 

175 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

artists  to  whom  from  his  earliest  years  he  had  been 
drawn  by  strong  cords  of  sympathy.     In  the  fol- 
lowing dedication  prefixed  to  Macleod  of  Dare  Black 
acknowledged  his  indebtedness  to  his  friends : 
"To  my  good  friends  J.  Pettie,  R.A.,  T.  Graham, 
G.    H.    Boughton,    W.    Q.    Orchardson,    R.A., 
Colin  Hunter,  J.  MacWhirter,  C.  E.  Johnson, 
J.  A.  Aitkin,  and  T.  Faed,  R.A.,  I  have  much 
pleasure    in    dedicating    this    story;    and    that 
not  so  much  in  the  way  of  any  compliment 
to  them  as  to  record  my  deep  sense  of  grati- 
tude to  them  for  having  turned  aside  from  more 
important  labors  to  give  me  each  a  drawing 
in  illustration  of  the  tale.     If  the  book  were 
better  worthy  of  such  distinguished  collabora- 
tion, I   should  have  less   scruple  —  but  equal 
pride — in  placing  their  names  on  this  page." 
In  the  autumn  Black  and  his  family  (three  chil- 
dren had  now   been   born   to  him — two  daughters 
and  one  son)  went  to  Oban,  not,  happily,  on  so  seri- 
ous an  errand  as  that  which  had  taken  him  to  Mull 
in  the  winter,  but  in  search  of  rest  and  recreation. 
They  occupied  Rosebank  cottage — a  pleasant  abode, 
which  was  in  due  time  to  be  described  in  the  pages 
of    White    Wings.     Here    they    entertained    many 
friends,  Pettie,  Colin  Hunter,  and  Professor  Blackie 
being  of  the  number. 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Rosebank,  Oban, 

July  4,  1878. 

DEAR  Mr.   CRERAR, — I  should  have  answered  your 

letter  some  time  ago ;  but  we  have  been  in  all  the  turmoil 

176 


LETTERS     TO     MR.     CRERAR 

of  removing  our  household  from  London  to  the  Highlands. 
And  here  we  are — in  fine  Highland  weather,  east  winds, 
and  driving  mists  of  fog  and  rain,  with  our  winter  clothes 
on  and  a  fire  in  the  drawing-room!  But  you  know  the 
sudden  changes :  to-morrow  may  bring  us  blue  seas  and 
skies  and  dazzling  sunlight;  and  then — and  then — and 
then  —  we  have  a  good -sized  yacht  tying  in  the  baj^, 
ready  to  carry  us  off  to  Mull  and  Skye  and  Lewis,  and 
even,  perhaps,  to  St.  Kilda.  My  wife  and  I  had  a  fine 
cruise  last  year  round  all  those  islands  mentioned  in  Mac- 
leod  of  Dare.  I  am  very  glad  you  like  the  story;  it  cost 
me  some  work,  and  I  have  been  idling  ever  since  I  finished 
it  last  March.  .  .  .  Please  convey  to  the  Burns  Society 
my  best  thanks  for  the  honor  they  have  done  me.  May 
they  have  many  a  pleasant  reunion. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

Rosebank,  Oban, 
August  21,  1878. 
DEAR  Mr.  CRERAR, — I  shall  have  great  pleasure  in 
getting  you  some  photographs  of  the  scenery  about  here, 
and  a  collection  of  Scotch  songs,  if  you  will  kindly  let 
me  know  how  I  can  get  the  import  duty  paid.  I  sent  a 
three-volume  novel  to  a  friend  in  America  the  other  day, 
and  the  Customs  people  abstracted  the  middle  volume! 
As  regards  the  Scotch  songs,  I  must  have  a  look  around. 
I  believe  there  is  a  pretty  complete  series  in  two  volumes 
edited  by  Morrison  Kyle.  A  large  folio  one-volume  edition 
by  Fulcher  I  have  at  home  is  very  poor.  I  never  heard  about 
Mavers,  but  I  will  ask.  Yours  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

We  have  had  a  fine  summer,  after  all — beautiful  yachting 
weather.     My  wife  has  never  had  those  photographs  done 

177 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

yet.  Perhaps  she  will  address  her  mind  to  the  Herculean 
task  before  she  answers  your  note.  At  present  she  is  at 
her  wits'  end  with  visitors. 

To  the  same. 

Reform  Club,  London, 

October  23,  1878. 
DEAR  Mr.  CRERAR  —  I  sent  to-day  to  Mr.  Watt— who 
has  kindly  undertaken  to  forward  them — a  book  of  Scotch 
songs  and  volume  of  photographs.  The  former  is  Mavers', 
which  I  have  ferreted  out  at  last ;  it  is  not  known  in  Eng- 
land. I  hope  it  will  answer  your  expectations;  but  the 
fact  is,  I  have  been  so  busy  since  returning  from  Scotland 
that  I  had  not  much  time  to  compare  it  with  other  collec- 
tions. The  volume  of  photographs  is  the  only  one  I  could 
get  with  pictures  of  the  Western  Islands.  The  outline 
of  cliff  which  you  will  see  in  the  photograph  of  Iona  Cathe- 
dral is  the  scene  of  Macleod  of  Dare — the  precipices  of 
Bourg  and  Gribun  between  Lochs  na  Keal  and  Scridain 
in  Mull.  Yours  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

To  Mr.  Whyte. 

Rosebank,  Oban, 

July  4,  1878. 
MY  DEAR  WHYTE, — You  ask  if  1  am  sweltering  in 
London.  1  wish  to  goodness  I  was!  I  am,  on  the  con- 
trary, shivering  here,  in  the  midst  of  east  winds  and  driving 
mists  of  rain,  my  winter  clothes  on,  and  a  fire  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. A  Scotch  July!  "Here  am  I  in  Arden;  the 
more  fool  I;  when  I  was  at  home  I  was  in  a  better  place." 
It  may  sound  sarcastical  if  I  ask  Mrs.  Whyte  and  you  to 
pay  us  a  visit ;  but  if  you  should  care  to  pierce  this  Arctic 
fog,  and  bring  a  lamp  with  you,  you  will  find  us  somewhere 

"178 


A    SHEILA     PILL 

about  here  till  the  end  of  September.  We  are  going  yacht- 
ing from  time  to  time,  and  expect  to  run  against  the  North 
Pole. 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  like  the  character  of  Gertrude 
White;  but,  mind,  it  is  not  my  idea.  She  is  presented  as 
seen  through  Macleod's  eyes.  Before  you  call  any  child 
of  yours  after  her,  just  read  again  a  chapter  in  the  last 
number  in  which  she  sallies  out  to  play  Lady  Bountiful, 
and  goes  into  fits  of  jealousy  about  a  placard ;  there  she 
is  supposed  to  speak  for  herself.  But  what  I  really  want 
in  the  way  of  glory  is  for  somebody  to  name  a  pill  after 
one  of  my  heroines.  There  is  a  Sheila  steamer  on  the 
Clyde  and  a  Sheila  cottage  on  Long  Island ;  a  Sheila  race- 
horse was  at  Sandown  Park  the  other  day,  and  I  hear  of 
several  Sheila  babies.  But  where  is  the  Sheila  pill?  A 
pill  has  a  far  greater  fame  than  any  of  these  things.  I 
spend  each  morning  in  reading  the  columns  of  advertise- 
ments devoted  to  patent  medicines ;  but  my  eyes  are  old ; 
the  white  mists  are  before  them;  I  hear  the  sound  of 
streams. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

To  Mr.  Kroeker. 

Rosebank,  Oban,  N.  B., 

July  4,  1878. 

MY  DEAR  KROEKER, — Would  you  excuse  my  troubling 

you  about  a  very  trifling  matter?     When  I  was  at  Metz 

I  saw   a   tombstone  over  a  Prussian   officer  which   had 

— to  the  best  of  my  recollection — this  inscription:   "  Er 

ruht  sanft  in  wieder  Kampfter  Deutschen  Erde."     Now 

I  find  they  have  changed  this  in  January  Good  Words 

to    "  wiederer    Kampfter    Deutscher    Erde."     Would    you 

mind   telling  me   whether   these   alterations   are   correct? 

I  have  forgotten  what  very  little  German  I  ever  knew, 

and  have  no  means  at  hand  here  of  finding  out.     Oh,  the 

179 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

rain,  the  rain,  the  rain!     And  the  brutes  have  had  unin- 
terrupted fine  weather  here  from  March  last  till  now! 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Rosebank,  Oban, 

July,  1878. 

MY  DEAR  KROEKER, — Pray  forgive  me  for  troubling 
you  once  more.  Am  I  to  understand  that  "  wiederer 
Kampfter  Deutscher  "  (not "  Deutsche^  ") "  Erde  "  is  correct? 
If  so,  please  don't  answer  this  note,  and  I  will  understand. 

Very  glad  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Kroeker  is  quite  well.     With 

kind  regards  to  you  both, 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

I  insert  the  foregoing  letters  to  Mr.  Kroeker  be- 
cause of  the  testimony  they  afford  to  the  extreme 
care  which  Black  took  to  insure  accuracy  in  even 
the  most  trivial  matters  when  he  was  writing.  No 
one,  as  I  have  already  said,  was  better  acquainted 
with  this  side  of  his  character  than  his  friend  Dr. 
Lauder  Brunton,  who  was  one  of  the  party  at  Rose- 
bank,  and  who  subsequently  figured  in  the  novel  of 
White  Wings,  in  which  Black  recorded  his  sporting 
and  yachting  experiences  during  that  autumn. 
The  following  letter  has  reference  to  a  review  of 
Macleod  of  Dare  and  to  the  writing  of  White  Wings  : 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Devonshire  Club,  St.  James's, 

November  23,  1878. 
My  DEAR  REID, — A  thousand  thanks  for  the  review. 
In  obedience  to  the  indignant  remonstrances  of  my  wife, 

180 


THE    INDOLENT    REVIEWER 

I  broke  my  usual  rule  and  read  it.  It  is  very  kind  of  you. 
I  was  quite  surprised  to  hear  that  you  had  returned ;  but 
still  you  must  have  had  some  bit  of  a  holiday.  I  am  pre- 
paring an  elaborate  account  of  my  summer's  holiday  in 
the  shape  of  a  yachting  romance,  and  the  Glasgow  Herald 
people  are  forming  a  syndicate  of  newspapers  to  have  it 
simultaneously  published.  If  you  think  it  would  do  for 
the  Mercury,  you  might  write  to  the  Herald  people;  but 
I  don't  know  how  the  negotiations  are  going  on.  When 
are  you  coming  up  for  a  week?  The  Reform  opens  on 
December  1st,  and  the  Committee  have  carried  over  the 
Devonshire  cook,  whose  performances  laid  such  a  hold 
on  your  affections. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

The  allusion  to  the  review  of  Macleod  of  Dare 
makes  mention  of  the  fact  that  Black  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  reading  the  criticisms  of  his  books. 
"Why  should  I  do  so?"  he  said  more  than  once. 
"These  gentlemen  spend  an  hour  or  two  in  giving 
their  opinions  of  a  work  to  which  I  have  devoted 
months  of  thought  and  toil.  How  can  they  tell 
me  anything  that  I  do  not  know  beforehand?  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  their  criticisms  are,  as  a  rule,  either 
obvious  or  foolish.  I  suppose  that,  as  a  business 
man,  I  ought  to  read  what  they  have  to  say  if  they 
had  any  effect  upon  my  own  readers ;  but  I  have  got 
an  audience  now — as  large  an  audience  as  I  want — 
and  I  find  that  it  cares  as  little  for  what  the  review- 
ers say  of  me  as  I  do  myself."  This,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, wTas  a  somewrhat  narrow  view  of  the  value  of 
literary  criticism,  but  it  was  one  which  Black  steadily 
maintained  throughout  his  life,  and  it  was  only  when 

181 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

Mrs.  Black  begged  him  to  break  through  his  rule, 
and  to  read  some  article  which  she  knew  would 
afford  him  pleasure,  that  he  ever  glanced  at  any 
criticism  upon  his  work. 

Macleod  of  Dare  had  brought  upon  its  author's 
head  a  renewal  of  the  thunderous  protests  of  his 
readers  against  the  tragical  termination  of  a  novel. 
Nobody  in  real  life  loves  the  "  bad  ending/'  perhaps 
for  the  very  reason  that  it  is  so  often  the  end  that 
comes.  In  fiction  the  majority  of  readers  abhor 
it,  as  Black  learned  after  the  publication  of  Madcap 
Violet  and  Macleod  of  Dare.  Here  is  his  defence  of 
himself,  as  published  in  the  Daily  News,  in  the  shape 
of  a  letter  from  "  J.  Smith,"  novelist : 

When  I  began  the  writing  of  novels,  more  years  ago 
now  than  I  care  to  count,  I  set  out  with  no  more  definite 
intention  than  that  of  making  my  men  and  women  as 
like  as  I  could  to  the  men  and  women  I  had  seen  and  known. 
As  I  never  had  had  the  pleasure  of  the  acquaintance  of  a 
murderer,  a  forger,  or  a  bigamist  —  and  as  it  seemed  to 
me  that  murderers,  forgers,  and  bigamists  formed,  after 
all,  but  a  small  proportion  of  the  population  of  this  coun- 
try— I  thought  it  would  be  at  least  safer  to  leave  those 
persons  out  altogether.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  it  never 
occurred  to  me  that  I  should  be  expected  to  represent  the 
world  as  consisting  exclusively  of  sugar-plums  and  orange- 
blossom;  that  the  business  of  a  novelist  was  to  be  limited 
to  the  patching  up  of  marriages ;  and  that  my  dearest 
friends  would  execrate  me  for  admitting  that  even  good 
people  may  occasionally  be  the  victims  of  apparently  quite 
unnecessary  and  unrequited  suffering.  However,  for  many 
a  day  I  was  left  to  do  as  I  pleased.  I  might  have  made 
a  Nibelungen  holocaust  of  the  whole  of  my  characters, 

182 


IN     DEFENCE     OF    A     "BAD    ENDING" 

and  the  world  would  not  have  shuddered  one  bit.  I 
was  allowed  to  work  my  own  wild  will  on  death-beds  or 
marriages,  and  nobody  seemed  to  care.  Then  a  change 
came.  I  suddenly  discovered  on  what  a  barrel  of  dynamite 
I  had  been  sitting,  contentedly  kicking  my  heels.  The 
new  story  ended  tragically.  That  it  must  have  ended 
tragically  I  should  have  thought  any  reader  would  have 
perceived  almost  at  the  outset.  However,  no  sooner  was 
it  published  than  I  was  appalled  at  what  I  had  done.  The 
remonstrances,  written  with  an  earnestness,  with  a  sense 
of  deep  personal  injury,  there  was  no  mistaking,  that  now 
poured  in  on  me  would  have  startled  and  shocked  the  least 
sensitive  of  persons.  I  had  been  looking  at  the  whole 
thing  as  a  piece  of  literature ;  my  correspondents  appeared 
to  take  it  as  a  cruel  and  gratuitous  stirring-up  of  painful 
recollections  of  their  own  domestic  calamities.  Was  there 
not  enough  sorrow  in  the  world?  "  Oh,  how  could  you 
do  so,  Mr.  Smith?"  Well,  at  that  time  I  was  younger 
than  I  am  now,  and  had  not  acquired  that  callousness  to 
public  opinion  that  comes  with  years  and  the  reading  of 
Marcus  Aurelius.  I  wrote  many  letters  in  reply,  and 
argued  and  remonstrated  in  turn.  I  appealed  to  the  high- 
est literature  that  has  impressed  the  world ;  I  took  shelter 
behind  the  highest  names;  I  demanded  to  know  whether, 
if  fiction  only  dealt  with  the  Rosa-Matilda  side  of  life, 
it  would  not  be  put  away  from  serious  consideration  alto- 
gether. No  use.  "  Oh,  how  could  you  do  so,  Mr.  Smith?" 
Well,  then,  accident  rather  than  design  took  me  away 
from  the  domain  of  tragedy  for  "some  years  after  that, 
and  the  public  and  I  seemed  to  get  on  very  well  together. 
There  were  no  more  remonstrances,  only  mild  felicitations. 
One  distinguished  physiologist  has  informed  me  that 
he  even  now  takes  up  and  rereads  after  dinner  one  or  other 
of  the  novels  I  wrote  at  this  time,  because  he  is  of  opinion 
that  nice,  comforting  literature  of  that  sort  is  a  real  aid 

183 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

to  digestion ;  and  another  equally  distinguished  professor 
has  confided  to  me  that  novel-reading  he  finds  to  be  quite 
invaluable,  for  after  dinner  he  lies  down  on  the  hearth-rug 
before  the  fire,  his  wife  reads  to  him  a  pleasant,  soothing 
novel  until  he  goes  to  sleep,  then  he  wakes  in  an  hour  or 
so  ready  for  a  long  night's  work.  I  am  proud  to  have 
helped  this  good  work,  in  however  small  a  measure.  "  But 
Scripture  saith  an  ending  to  all  fine  things  must  be " ; 
and  so,  after  this  period  of  repose  and  relaxation,  I  began 
to  write  the  life  and  adventures  of  a  certain  set  of  characters 
whose  story  plainly  pointed  to  a  tragic  end.  That  is  to 
say,  it  so  pointed  to  me,  and  to  a  few  people  who  saw  what 
was  coming,  and  who  wrote  and  implored  that  the  doom 
might  be  removed ;  but  the  wider  public  were  only  surprised 
and  indignant  and  resentful.  And  now  there  was  a  new 
note  audible  in  the  cry.  This  tragic  end  was  so  "  un- 
necessary " !  "  Oh,  why,  Mr.  Smith,  could  you  not  have 
allowed  So-and-so  and  So-and-so  to  spend  the  remainder 
of  their  lives  together?  Surely  it  was  unnecessary  that 
such  an  awful  fate  should  befall  them?"  These  letters 
were  even  more  urgent,  pathetic,  indignant  than  before; 
but  they  did  not  trouble  me  so  much  now.  Years  and 
Marcus  Aurelius  had  taught  me  to  be  of  a  placable  dis- 
position; I  was  no  longer  anxious  to  point  out  that  ap- 
parently unmerited  and  "  unnecessary  "  suffering  is  one 
of  the  most  familiar  and  obvious  facts  of  life;  and  that 
any  literature  that  aims  at  representing  life  must  give  it 
its  proper  prominence.  The  letters  themselves,  one  might 
have  said,  were  proof  of  the  commonness  of  tragedy :  why 
the  almost  invariable  reference  to  some  domestic  calamity 
the  writer  had  had  to  endure  for  himself  or  herself?  One 
piece  of  criticism,  however,  I  am  bound  to  admit  was  sound. 
"  I  will  tell  you  why  the  ending  of  your  story  is  unneces- 
sary," said  a  well-known  physician.  "  I  have  gone  care- 
fully through  the  case  as  you  present  it,  and  from  my  diag- 

184 


REMONSTRANCES    FROM    READERS 

nosis  I  feel  confident  that  if  I  had  been  called  in  I  could  have 
cured  him. "  There  was  nothing  to  be  said  in  answer  to  that. 
After  this  story — pray  forgive  me  for  being  so  long  in 
coming  to  the  end  of  the  third  volume,  it  is  a  matter  of 
habit — I  fell  away  from  the  tragic  pitch,  greatly  to  the 
improvement  of  my  own  nervous  system,  and  to  the  ap- 
parent satisfaction  of  my  friends.  I  will  pass  over  the  con- 
siderable interval,  and  come  to  the  third  occasion  on  which 
I  essayed  tragedy.  Now  the  clamor  arose  more  loudly 
than  ever  and  the  reproaches  became  more  severe,  because 
it  no  doubt  appeared  as  if  I  had  refused  to  listen  to  all  the 
previous  prayers  and  pleadings.  I  was  regarded  as  in- 
curable, an  assassin  by  habit  and  repute.  This  was  the 
climax.  By  this  time,  however,  Marcus  Aurelius  had 
completed  his  work.  I  was  as  insensible  to  these  piteous 
cries  as  the  nether  millstone;  the  letters  were  interesting 
only  in  so  far  as  they  seemed  to  represent  the  genuine 
philanthropic  feelings  of  the  writers.  It  was  only  by 
accident  that  a  phrase  in  one  of  them  set  me  off  on  a  new 
train  of  inquiry.  An  amiable  correspondent  wrote  to 
me  to  say  that  he  had  not  only  read  my  novels  as  they 
came  out,  but  had  advised  others  to  read  them — a  most 
judicious  and  praiseworthy  proceeding  on  his  part.  He 
went  on  to  say,  "  Of  late  I  have  met  with  this  reply,  '  No, 
they  are  too  miserable.'  Why  is  this?  Why  should  you 
make  them  all  end  so  sorrowfully?"  The  little  word  "  all  " 
somewhat  startled  me.  I  began  to  reckon  up.  During 
my  fourteen  years  of  novel- writing  I  had  written  in  all 
eleven  novels ;  three  of  these  had  ended  tragically.  Was 
it  possible,  I  was  forced  to  ask  myself,  that  out  of  the  whole 
eleven  novels  only  those  three  which  had  ended  tragically 
had  remained  in  the  memory?  I  went  back  and  bethought 
myself  of  those  three  tidal  waves  of  correspondence.  Was 
I  right,  after  all,  in  my  juvenile  retort  that  tragedy  was 
the  only  form  of  literature  that  firmly  impressed  itself  on 

185 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

the  mind?  And  the  more  I  recalled  of  the  pleadings  put 
forward  by  these  remonstrants,  the  more  it  became  clear 
that  the  "  happy  ending  "  novels  of  the  series  had  been 
entirely  forgotten,  except  when  some  hard-working  man 
of  science  wanted  to  purr  himself  to  sleep  on  the  hearth- 
rug, and  if  all  this  were  so,  what  was  the  obvious  conclu- 
sion that  had  to  be  drawn? 

At  present,  sir,  I  am  somewhat  bewildered  by  this  dis- 
covery. It  seems  hard  that  my  eight  orange-blossom 
novels  should  be  wholly  forgotten,  or  should  survive  only 
as  a  soporific.  It  seems  strange  that  the  people  who  pro- 
test against  tragedy  should  remember  only  the  three  tragic 
ones.  And  as  regards  my  future  work?  Just  now,  for 
example,  I  am  engaged  in  the  composition  of  a  story  the 
characters  in  which  have  really  nothing  awful  or  tragic 
about  them.  They  and  I  get  on  very  well;  we  have  had 
some  fine  excursions  together;  I  should  like  to  part  on 
good  terms  with  them.  But  I  am  driven  to  ask  whether, 
in  order  to  insure  that  they  shall  remain  for  at  least  one 
j^ear  in  the  memory  of  my  readers,  I  may  not,  after  all, 
have  to  set  to  work  at  the  end  of  the  third  volume  and  Nibe- 
lungen  them  into  nothing. 

Such  was  Black's  whimsical  defence  of  the  novel 
that  ends  badly.  That  he  was  justified  in  writing 
of  the  tidal  waves  of  correspondence  that  followed 
the  appearance  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth,  Madcap 
Violet,  and  Macleod  of  Dare,  an  examination  of  his 
papers  proves.  It  may  interest  the  reader  if  from  a 
pile  of  such  documents  I  select  two  for  insertion 

here. 

Sheffield, 

Jan.  22,  1876. 
DEAR  Mr.  BLACK,— Will  you  permit  me  to  introduce 
myself  to  you  as  one  of  your  warmest  admirers,  and,  as 

186 


AN    ADMIRER'S    LETTER 

such,  allow  me  to  express  my  great  disappointment  at  the 
conclusion  of  Madcap  Violet?  I  am  afraid  it  will  appear 
extremely  presumptuous  in  me  to  express  any  criticism 
of  the  production  of  talents  such  as  yours ;  and  yet  it  is 
possible  that,  as  one  out  of  the  multitude  of  your  readers, 
even  my  opinions  may  possess  a  certain  weight.  I  ought, 
perhaps,  to  explain  that  I  am  a  Quakeress,  and  have  been 
brought  up  with  a  strong  disapproval  of  indiscriminate 
novel-reading,  and  am,  in  consequence,  very  fastidious 
in  my  choice  of  an  occasional  treat  of  the  kind.  My  hus- 
band is  even  more  particular  than  I  am ;  but  we  have  both 
keenly  enjoyed  your  Princess  of  Thule  and  The  Strange 
Adventures  of  a  Phaeton,  which  we  have  read  aloud  to- 
gether. 

The  fresh  charm  and  utter  unworldliness  of  your  books 
are  extremely  captivating  to  those  who,  like  ourselves, 
have  grown  up  in  comparative  ignorance  of  the  heat  and 
glare  of  ordinary  life.  Then,  too,  their  high  moral  tone, 
and  especially  the  purity  and  innocent  simplicity  of  their 
heroines,  render  them  without  doubt  a  most  powerful 
agent  for  good  to  our  whole  nation.  Indeed,  it  is  solely 
because  of  the  national  character  of  your  works  that  I 
venture  to  find  courage  to  address  you.  Had  you  been 
only  an  ordinary  writer  it  would  have  been  different,  but 
novels  such  as  yours  must  powerfully  affect  the  moral 
tone  of  the  nation,  according  as  they  make  good  or  evil 
attractive  to  their  readers;  according  to  the  impression 
left  on  the  mind  on  closing  the  book,  that  honesty  is  the 
best  policy,  or  that,  after  all,  it  is  foolish  to  give  way  to 
noble  sentiments,  for  they  may  very  likely  bring  you  to 
a  bad  end.  Our  human  lives  are  made  up  of  undefined 
and  fleeting  impressions,  each  of  which,  however,  as  it 
passes,  leaves  its  mark  behind  it  as  a  lasting  legacy  for 
good  or  evil  to  the  heart;  and  it  should  certainly  be  the 
first  aim  of  a  great  writer  to  use  his  influence  to  elevate 

187 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

the  tone  of  each  of  his  millions  of  readers,  and  to  aid  the 
progress  of  good  by  at  least  inferring  that  even  in  this 
world  the  best  people  have  the  best  of  it.  This  has  been 
so  markedly  the  effect  of  almost  all  your  novels  hitherto 
that  the  disappointment  in  Madcap  Violet  was  the  more 
bitter.  It  is  not  only  that  you  attach  us  warmly  to  Violet 
and  James  Drummond,  and  then— murder  them,  but — 
you  make  unselfishness  do  the  deed.  If  you  reply  that 
it  was  not  unselfishness,  but  interference,  then  I  ask,  is 
not  that  very  interference  represented  as  unselfishness? 
And  are  not  all  the  sufferers  formed  out  of  all  the  kindest 
and  noblest  characters  in  the  story,  while  that  black-hearted 
egotist,  George  Miller,  gets  off  scot-free? 

Oh,  surely,  the  last  number  of  Macmillan  was  a  mis- 
take !  Of  all  your  books  not  one  is  so  vivid  in  its  personality 
as  that  one;  not  one — not  even  Sheila — holds  up  to  ad- 
miration such  utter  self-forgetfulness,  such  heroic  self- 
martyrdom  for  the  sake  of  another,  as  that  one ;  and  yet 
not  only  are  our  two  friends  annihilated  at  a  stroke,  but 
all  the  sentiments  that  we  hold  to  be  the  best  possibilities 
of  our  human  nature  are  transformed  into  the  annihilators. 
Surely  the  present  cannot  be  the  original  end  that  you 
had  designed  for  the  tale.  Surely  your  first  intention 
was  not  to  leave  poor  Mrs.  Warrener  heart-broken  forever 
under  a  useless  remorse  for  having  tried  to  do  her  best  and 
kindest  by  her  two  best-loved  friends.  Oh,  I  do  wish  you 
would  write  another  ending — or  let  me  read  the  one  you 
had  originally  written,  so  that  I  may  be  quite  sure  that 
my  persistent  conviction  is  a  true  one,  that  James  Drum- 
mond and  Violet  are  still  alive  and  are  living  happily  ever 
after.  ...  Do  you  not  think,  too,  that  there  is  misery 
enough  in  the  world  without  one  of  our  best  novelists  con- 
centrating all  his  energies  on  an  attempt  to  increase  it? 
What  we  read  for  recreation  should  leave  us  happier,  happier 
and  more  ready  to  face  the  exigencies  of  life.     We  have 

188 


WHY    SHOULD    FICTION    PAIN? 

all  of  us  friends  enough  to  lose  without  mourning  the  loss 
of  ideal  ones.  Very  possibly  my  earnestness  may  appear 
to  you  comic.  You  must  attribute  it  to  my  sober  and  earnest 
education,  which  renders  any  good  fiction  real  to  me,  and 
the  characters  of  it  friends  whom  I  seem  to  have  known 
in  real  life ;  and  of  all  characters  in  fiction  none  have  ever 
seemed  so  real  to  me  as  yours.  It  is  very  hard,  too,  though 
this  is  a  purely  personal  grievance,  to  have  our  beloved 
western  Highlands  connected  with  such  heart-breaking 
associations.  Our  pet  spot  is  a  village  nearly  opposite 
Isle  Ornsay,  and,  spite  of  all  our  own  delightful  memories 
of  the  same,  I  cannot  now  think  of  the  magnificent  view 
across  from  the  mainland  to  Skye  without  a  feeling  of 
pain.  In  concluding,  I  must  beg  you  to  let  my  profound 
admiration  for  your  talents  be  my  apology  for  thus  ad- 
dressing you,  and  permit  me  to  remain, 

Your  sincere  friend  and  well-wisher, 


September  30th. 
William  Black,  Esq.: 

Dear  Sir, — I  have  read  several  of  your  works,  and 
been  interested  in  all,  but  I  am  reading  Madcap  Violet 
with  my  heart  in  Violet's  breast.  I  am  not  like  your  brave, 
beautiful  heroine  in  any  thing  save  one ;  but  that  one  bond 
of  sympathy  has  made  her  very  real  to  me,  and  I  feel  as 
if  I  would  do  anything  to  help  her.  Why  should  not  her 
story  come  right,  when  Drummond,  that  king  among  men, 
loves  her  so  well?  If  he  did  not,  ah,  then  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent. But  why  should  he  suffer?  Is  no  sweetness  to 
come  into  his  life  because  he  is  no  longer  young?  I  know 
a  man  is  led  by  his  genius,  but  how  I  wish  yours  would 
lead  you  to  make  this  best  of  all  your  heroes  happy.  There 
are  so  many  things  that  seem  beyond  setting  right  in  this 
world,  but  here  are  two  between  whom  only  an  imagi- 
nary barrier  exists,  and,  this  removed,  the  two  streams 

189 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

of  their  lives  might  flow  together.  I  felt  impelled  to  write 
to  you  after  reading  the  August  number  of  Macmillan, 
but  I  resisted  the  desire  then ;  it  seemed  so  obtrusive.  For- 
give me  that  I  have  yielded  now,  but  I  simply  could  not 
help  myself  after  reading  these  words,  "  It  was  not  true, 
however,  that  the  girl  was  dead.  No  such  good  fortune 
had  befallen  her." 

If  any  one  knew  I  was  writing  to  you  I  should  be  laughed 
at,  but  you,  who  have  penetrated  the  depths  of  woman's 
nature,  will  forgive  a  woman's  impulse.  The  one  who 
writes  to  you  now  wishes  you  all  happiness,  and  continued 
success  in  your  career,  and  thanks  you  for  many  pleasant 
hours  in  a  somewhat  darkened  career,  which  has,  never- 
theless, been  enriched  by  much  that  is  precious  arid  good. 
Once  more  I  ask  your  kind  pardon,  and,  though  unknown 
to  you,  I  feel  that  through  your  books  you  have  stretched 
out  a  friendly  hand  to  me. 

Yours  very  truly, 


Many  novelists  have  received  letters  of  this  kind; 
but  these  two,  which  I  have  taken  almost  at  random 
from  a  large  collection,  show  not  only  the  natural 
resentment  of  the  reader  at  the  "bad  ending,"  but 
the  extent  to  which  Black  had  succeeded  in  making 
his  characters  living  realities  to  others  besides  him- 
self. 

At  the  end  of  1878  a  great  change  took  place  in 
Black's  life.  He  left  London,  and  made  a  home 
for  himself  at  Brighton,  in  which  he  was  destined  to 
remain  to  the  end  of  his  days.  He  always  had  a 
peculiar  affection  for  Brighton,  the  "merry  doctor" 
of  Thackeray's  fancy.  Many  times  before  he  be- 
came a  permanent  resident  I  have  heard  him  dilate 

190 


LEAVES    CAMBER WELL    GROVE 

upon  its  special  charms,  and  upon  the  greatness  of 
the  contrast  that  it  offers  to  London,  of  which  it  is 
now  little  more  than  a  suburb.  Black  revelled  in 
the  purity  of  its  air,  in  its  sunshine,  and  its  great 
expanse  of  empty  sea.  With  his  keen  eye  he  had 
detected  one  feature  of  the  place — that  was,  the 
impossibility  of  wearing  old  clothes  there  without 
being  found  out.  "Come  down  to  Brighton,  my 
dear  fellow/'  he  would  say,  "and  then  you'll  see 
whether  that  coat  which  you  are  wearing  so  com- 
placently in  these  London  fogs  is  not  hopelessly 
shabby."  This  tribute  to  the  crystalline  purity  of 
the  air  of  Brighton  was  as  sincere  as  it  was  quaint. 
Black  suffered  from  nostalgia  when  he  was  away 
from  the  sea;  and  as  he  could  not  afford  to  give  up 
touch  with  London,  he  selected  the  nearest  place  to 
it  where  he  could  have  sea  air  and  could  delight 
in  watching  the  restless  waves,  and  made  his  per- 
manent abode  there.  He  gave  up  his  house  in 
Camberwell  Grove,  where  his  old  friend  E.  D.  J. 
Wilson  succeeded  him,  with  not  a  little  regret.  He 
had  been  very  fond  of  it,  and  rather  proud  of  the  fact 
that  he  had  secured  a  thoroughly  comfortable  and 
presentable  dwelling  at  a  very  moderate  cost,  be- 
cause he  had  been  content  to  live  in  the  southeastern, 
instead  of  the  southwestern,  postal  district.  He 
used  to  chuckle  over  the  fact  that  Airlie  House,  if 
it  had  only  chanced  to  lie  in  southwest  London, 
would  have  cost  him  twice  as  much  as  it  did. 

He  could  not  afford  to  give  up  London  altogether, 
for  it  was  there  that  many  of  the  interests  of  his  life 
were  centred.     But  the  writing  of  MacLeod  of  Dare 

191 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

had  satisfied  him  that  London  was  not  a  place  in 
which  he  could  work  to  the  best  advantage.  The 
more  completely  his  work  absorbed  him,  the  more 
necessary  he  found  it  to  be  that  he  should  escape 
from  contact  with  his  fellows.  Mrs.  Black  recalls 
the  days  and  weeks  of  struggle  and  labor  in  which 
the  closing  chapters  of  Macleod  of  Dare  were  written. 
At  one  point  in  the  story  he  found  it  impossible  to 
make  any  advance  in  his  work  at  Camberwell  Grove, 
and  he  fled,  almost  in  despair,  to  his  favorite  Bed- 
ford Hotel  at  Brighton.  Here  he  was  free  from  the 
heavy  atmosphere  and  electric  hum  of  London; 
but  he  was  also  separated  from  his  wife  and  the 
familar  faces  of  his  own  household.  Before  he  had 
been  many  hours  at  the  Bedford  Hotel  he  telegraphed 
to  Mrs.  Black,  begging  her  to  come  to  him  at  once 
with  one  of  the  children.  When  she  arrived,  he  ex- 
plained that  he  had  found  it  as  difficult  to  write  in 
Brighton  as  in  London,  but  that  now  that  she  had 
come  he  believed  he  would  be  all  right.  Then  he 
sent  her  out  with  her  daughter  for  a  long  drive,  and 
when  she  returned  she  found  him  placidly  intent 
upon  his  task.  It  was  this  experience  that  led  him 
to  break  up  his  London  establishment  and  go  to 
Brighton.  Often,  in  subsequent  years,  he  explained 
to  his  friends  that  he  had  found  Brighton  to  be  the 
place  in  which  he  could  work  most  easily  and  with 
the  greatest  satisfaction  to  himself.  Yet,  in  the  first 
instance,  he  went  there  as  an  experiment,  taking  a 
house  in  Belgrave  Terrace  for  six  months  only.  As 
he  could  not  do  without  some  sort  of  establishment  in 
London,  he  looked  out  for  chambers  where  he  could 

192 


BUCKINGHAM    STREET 

reside  when  in  town.  Almost  by  accident  he  found 
the  place  he  wanted  in  a  house  which  had  already 
obtained  fame  in  the  story  of  English  letters.  This 
was  the  old  house  (number  15)  at  the  bottom  of 
Buckingham  Street,  in  the  Strand,  in  which  Peter 
the  Great  had  lived  during  his  sojourn  in  England. 
But  it  was  haunted  by  a  ghost  far  dearer  to  Black 
than  was  that  of  Peter  the  Great.  Charles  Dickens 
had  lived  here  at  one  time,  and  it  was  here  that 
some  scenes  in  David  Copperfield  were  laid.  The 
house  was  described  by  Dickens  in  that  great  story, 
for  it  was  here  that  he  placed  Steerforth,  one  of  the 
heroes  of  the  book.  It  is  to  this  day  a  quaint,  ram- 
bling, old-fashioned  dwelling,  and  it  has  a  stair- 
case the  peculiar  awkwardness  of  which  David  Cop- 
perfield described  in  his  wonderful  autobiography. 
The  most  sober  of  men  could  have  tripped  and  fallen 
upon  that  staircase  as  David  did  after  partaking  of 
Steerforth's  hospitality,  and  as  many  a  friend  of 
Black's  did  in  later  days.  But  when  he  had  climbed 
this  dangerous  road  to  the  stars,  a  visitor  to  Black 
in  these  his  last  London  quarters  found  himself  in 
the  cosiest  of  sitting-rooms,  with  a  view  from  the 
window  which  always  evoked  from  the  new-comer  a 
cry  of  delight.  Below  were  the  Embankment  Gar- 
dens and  a  wide  sweep  of  the  Embankment  itself, 
beyond  which  the  dark  river  could  be  traced,  flow- 
ing through  its  many  bridges  from  Westminster  to 
St.  Paul's.  The  tumbled  old  houses  and  landing- 
stages  of  the  Surrey  side  of  the  Thames  carried  the 
eye  of  the  spectator  to  the  distant  background  and 
the  gleaming  towers  of  the  Crystal  Palace. 
'3  193 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

It  was  an  ideal  home  for  a  poet  or  a  novelist,  and 
Black  learned  to  love  it,  even  as  he  had  long  loved 
the  heather-clad  heights  of  Mull  and  Kerrera.  To 
the  end  of  his  life  this  house  in  Buckingham  Street 
was  his  London  home;  and  here  his  friends  were 
wont  to  gather  round  him  on  his  frequent  visits  to 
town,  and  to  enjoy  far  on  into  the  night  his  abound- 
ing hospitality  and  a  companionship  so  delightful 
that  mere  hospitality  shrank  into  insignificance 
beside  it.  No  one  who  visited  Black  in  his  cham- 
bers above  the  river  can  have  forgotten  the  joyous 
enthusiasm  with  which  he  would  dwell  upon  the 
noble  prospect  from  the  windows  of  his  room.  It 
was  at  night-time,  when  the  traffic  of  the  great  city 
was  stilled,  that  this  prospect  was  most  impressive. 
The  long  range  of  lights  by  the  side  of  the  river 
and  on  the  bridges  furnished  an  illumination  the 
beauty  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  describe.  The 
great  mass  of  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  to  the  extreme 
left,  and  to  the  right  the  noble  outline  of  the  Palace 
of  Westminster,  seemed  to  frame  the  picture,  the  cen- 
tral feature  of  which  was  always  the  black,  mys- 
terious river,  silently  bearing  its  burden  seaward. 
How  often  has  one  heard  Wordsworth's  immortal 
sonnet  quoted  by  one  or  other  of  the  little  party  who 
sat  round  the  open  window,  drinking  in  the  beauty 
of  the  scene  and  the  fresh  night-air  as  it  blew  across 
the  sleeping  cityl  I  think  that  Black  was  never 
seen  by  his  friends  to  greater  advantage  than  on 
those  nights  in  Buckingham  Street.  Certainly  I 
never  heard  him  talk  better  than  in  that  familiar 
room,  when  the  veil  of  reticence  in  which  he  was  so 

194 


CONVERSATIONAL    MOODS 

commonly  shrouded  was  rent,  and  he  bared  his 
heart  to  his  friends.  Under  no  other  conditions 
could  one  so  fully  realize  all  that  he  was — the  poet, 
the  thinker,  the  artist,  the  man  of  lofty  ideals,  the 
eager  and  untiring  student  of  life,  with  its  mani- 
fold, unspeakable  mysteries,  its  awful  tragedies, 
and  its  glorious  possibilities.  Listening  to  him 
then,  that  which  at  other  times  seemed  to  be  an  in- 
soluble puzzle  was  explained,  and  men  knew  how 
it  was  that  he  had  created  and  endowed  with  life 
the  rare  and  beautiful  characters  of  many  of  his 
novels.  No  jarring  note  was  ever  struck  in  those 
long  talks  beneath  the  stars  and  above  the  river; 
no  ungenerous  word  fell  from  his  lips,  no  mean  or 
sordid  thought.  And  yet  his  mood  would  change 
with  startling  suddenness,  passing  from  grave  to 
gay,  from  deep  speculations  on  those  questions 
upon  which  human  hopes  and  happiness  depend, 
to  the  lightest  and  brightest  of  the  topics  which 
attracted  him,  the  beauties  of  some  spot  seen  once 
far  away,  or  the  glorious  uncertainties  of  salmon- 
fishing  on  the  Oykel,  or  the  delights  of  yachting 
in  the  western  seas.  But  whatever  the  theme,  no 
one  who  was  privileged  to  listen  to  him  in  these  mo- 
ments of  complete  unreserve  could  resist  the  spell 
that  was  cast  over  him,  or  fail  to  realize  the  fact 
that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  master.  To  all 
who  took  part  in  those  midnight  gatherings  in 
Buckingham  Street  the  memory  of  them  will  re- 
main among  the  most  cherished  possessions  of  their 
lives. 

Black's  stay  in  Belgrave  Terrace  satisfied  him 

195 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

that  Brighton  really  was  what  he  believed  it  to  be, 
and  he  looked  out  for  a  house  in  which  he  could 
establish  himself  permanently.  His  choice  fell  upon 
Paston  House — a  commodious  and  substantial  resi- 
dence at  the  Kemp  Town  end  of  Brighton.  He 
bought  it,  and  prepared  to  furnish  it  as  a  home. 
In  the  mean  time  the  novel  of  White  Wings,  in  which 
he  had  gathered  up  his  more  recent  sporting  and 
yachting  experiences  in  the  Highlands,  was  ap- 
pearing in  the  Cornhill  Magazine.  Not  a  little  of 
the  charm  which  delighted  everybody  in  The  Strange 
Adventures  of  a  Phaeton  is  to  be  found  in  this  tale, 
in  which  there  is  the  pleasantest  blending  of  fiction 
and  fact.  Nowhere  do  his  powers  as  a  descriptive 
writer  shine  more  conspicuously.  There  is  noth- 
ing of  the  tragedy  of  life  in  the  book.  Its  author 
found  in  writing  it  a  welcome  relief  from  the  stress 
and  passion  of  Macleod  of  Dare,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  the  two  books  is  as  different  as  summer  from 
winter.  For  many  a  year  there  has  been  no  story 
in  such  general  favor  among  yachtsmen  as  White 
Wings.  It  is,  indeed,  the  authorized  and  accepted 
guide  for  all  who  go  yachting  in  those  northern 
seas.  The  hand  of  genius  has  invested  everything 
that  it  touched  with  a  special  charm;  but  there  is 
no  deviation  from  the  truth,  no  exaggeration  of 
realities,  in  order  to  secure  effects.  The  most  pro- 
saic writer  could  not  have  been  more  scrupulously 
accurate  in  his  descriptions  and  his  recital  of  ex- 
periences on  sea  and  land  than  was  Black  in  a  story 
which  nevertheless  reads  like  a  fairy-tale.  As 
usual,  he  introduced  into  the  novel  some  characters 

196 


"WHITE    WINGS" 

who  were  clearly  drawn  from  life,  and  among  these 
that  of  Dr.  Sutherland  was  instantly  recognized 
by  most  who  knew  the  original. 

To  Dr.  Lauder  Brunton. 

5  Belgrave  Terrace, 
August  ii,  1879. 
MY  DEAR  BRUNTON, — I  hope  it  isn't  so  dreadfully 
personal  as  to  be  recognizable  by  everybody.  Your  own 
friends  I  don't  mind ;  I  thought  they  would  probably  guess ; 
but  I  hope  I  have  put  the  outside  public  off  the  scent  by 
giving  Dr.  Sutherland  the  physique  of  a  farmer,  and  a  ter- 
rible knowledge  of  Gaelic  and  books.  I  have  to  confess,  how- 
ever, with  some  trembling  that  my  wife  says  she  thought 
of  you  all  the  time  she  was  reading  the  story.  Mind, 
I  may  not  turn  up  on  Sunday  if  it  is  bad  weather,  or  if 
I  manage  to  blister  my  heels  in  the  mean  time.  They 
are  making  weak  efforts  in  that  direction  already. 

Yours  always, 

W.  Black. 

The  portrait  of  Dr.  Sutherland  in  White  Wings 
was  one  that  could  hurt  the  feelings  of  nobody,  but 
the  case  was  different  with  another  of  the  charac- 
ters in  the  same  story.  Rightly  or  wrongly  the 
initiated  insisted  that  this  very  disagreeable  man 
was  intended  to  represent  a  person  well  known  in 
certain  circles.  Black  stoutly  denied  that  this  was 
the  case,  though  he  was  fain  to  admit  that  some 
rather  prominent  characteristics  of  the  man  in  ques- 
tion had  been  introduced  into  the  description  of  the 
fictitious  personage  of  the  book.  Unluckily,  by  a 
curious  and  absolutely  innocent  coincidence,  the 
artist  who  illustrated  White  Wings  in  the  Cornhill 

197 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

Magazine,  in  drawing  a  picture  of  this  particular 
character  gave  him  the  outward  appearance  of  the 
supposed  original.  Black  himself  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  coincidence,  but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the 
gentleman  who  believed  that  he  had  been  described 
in  the  story  was  not  easily  satisfied  as  to  the  au- 
thor's innocence  with  regard  to  the  picture. 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

August  25,  1879. 
DEAR  Mr.  CRERAR,— I  don't  know  whether  I  answered 
your  last  letter  or  not,  but  I  know  I  should  long  ago  have 
sent  you  the  domestic  photographs  that  were  promised 
you.  Even  now  I  can  only  send  you  an  instalment,  a 
photograph  of  a  sketch  of  my  little  girl  taken  by  Colin 
Hunter,  the  well-known  sea-painter.  It  is  an  admirable 
likeness.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  there  is  some  revival  of 
business  in  America,  and  hope  you  are  profiting  by  it 
and  are  in  good  health.  When  is  your  trip  to  Scotland 
to  come  off?  They  have  been  having  much  better  weather 
there  this  year  than  we  have  had  in  the  south.  My  wife 
will  send  you  those  photographs  when  they  are  taken ;  in 
the  mean  time  we  are  up  to  the  neck  in  the  worry  of  getting 
into  our  new  house.  We  propose  now  to  live  here,  keeping 
only  rooms  in  London.  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would 
send  me  an  occasional  copy  of  the  Scotsman,  just  that 
one  might  have  an  idea  of  what  our  countrymen  are  doing 
across  the  Atlantic. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

The  furnishing   of   Paston   House   naturally   oc- 
cupied much  of  his  time  during  1879,  but  it  did  not 

198 


BRIGHTON 

prevent  his  making  a  spring  journey  to  Italy  in  the 
company  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pettie,  nor  did  it  interfere 
with  the  usual  autumn  sojourn  in  Scotland.  Dur- 
ing the  visit  to  Italy,  Black  gathered  materials  which 
he  afterwards  used  in  his  novel  of  Sunrise.  I  take 
from  Harper's  Magazine  for  December,  1882,  the 
following  description  of  Paston  House,  soon  after 
its  occupation  by  Black  and  his  family  : 

Black's  house  is  in  Paston  Place.  It  was  built  by  Cubitt, 
the  famous  contractor.  A  plain,  substantial  building,  it 
is  a  handsome,  compact  residence.  It  was  decorated  and 
furnished  under  the  personal  superintendence  of  the  nov- 
elist and  his  wife,  and  under  the  influence  of  the  modern 
revival  of  the  picturesque  days  before  Nash.  Pleasant 
combinations  on  walls  and  floors,  soft  rugs  of  Oriental 
hues,  tiled  fireplaces,  and  high  oaken  mantels,  wainscoted 
rooms,  good  pictures  carefully  hung,  bits  of  "old  blue," 
and  reminiscences  of  travel  in  the  shape  of  china,  glass, 
and  bronze,  and  in  all  things  an  eye  to  comfort  as  well 
as  picturesqueness  is  everywhere  observable.  The  hall 
is  decorated  in  a  bluish-gray,  the  balustrades  of  the  stairs 
Pompeiian  red.  In  a  recess  beneath  the  staircase  is  a 
fine  old  black  oak  Dorset  chest  that  came  from  the  house 
of  Anne  of  Cleves  at  Lewes.  It  is  known  to  have  belonged 
to  the  ill-treated  lady  herself.  The  dining-room  is  on  the 
ground  floor,  the  light  coming  in  through  a  delicately 
painted  window,  the  walls  a  golden  green,  with  a  dado  of 
Indian  matting.  There  are  several  interesting  pictures 
here,  notably  an  excellent  portrait  of  Black  by  his  friend 
John  Pettie,  R. A., and  a  couple  of  dainty  sea-pieces  by  Mr. 
Colin  Hunter.  One  of  this  last-mentioned  painter's  works 
is  particularly  noticeable.  It  is  a  half-finished  sketch 
of  the  deck  of  a  yacht,  with  a  bit  of  sunny  sail  and  a  broad 
view  of  blue  sea  and  sky.     It  is  a  striking  study  of  color. 

199 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

It  is  mainly  a  portrait  of  the  vessel  mentioned  in  White 
Wings  as  the  White  Dove.  Her  original  name  was  the 
Ringdove.  She  was  a  government  boat,  furnished  for 
service  in  the  western  Highlands.  The  host's  face  lights 
up  with  a  kindling  interest  as  I  note  the  good  points  in 
some  of  his  favorite  pictures.  He  takes  up  my  criticism 
with  enthusiastic  endorsement  of  George  Aikman's  watery 
effects  of  sea  and  sky,  and  the  truthfulness  of  his  clouds 
after  rain.  "  And  yonder  bit  of  Hunter's,  a  reminiscence 
of  the  north  end  of  Skye,  looking  something  like  the  Irish 
coast  as  you  see  it  on  your  first  sight  of  it  when  returning 
from  America,"  he  says,  "  and  this  sea-piece  by  Aitken 
deals  with  the  spot  where  the  yacht  went  down  in  Macleod 
of  Dare."  '  You  speak  of  it  as  if  it  were  true,"  I  remarked. 
"  It  is  to  me,"  he  says,  quietly.  "  I  have  heard  nautical 
men  praise  your  description  of  working  the  yacht."  "  Well, 
I  claim  to  know  something  about  a  yacht.  An  old  Scotch 
skipper  once  told  me  I  need  never  starve,  because  I  could 
always  make  a  living  as  a  pilot  in  the  western  Highlands." 
Black's  taste  for  bric-a-brac  runs  rather  in  the  direction 
of  spirit  and  wine  bottles  than  in  the  way  of  teapots.  He 
hands  me  bottle  after  bottle  from  his  sideboard.  The 
first  is  a  whiskey-jar  that  belonged  to  the  brother-in-law 
of  Rob  Roy.  It  is  followed  by  many  other  quaint  speci- 
mens, chiefly  Scandinavian  and  Italian.  One  of  them 
contains  a  rare  liqueur  which  we  taste  from  an  ancient 
droch-an-dorrach  {"  drink  at  the  door  ")  Scotch  thistle 
or  stirrup-cup ;  and  these  are  very  appropriately  preserved 
as  curiosities  in  company  with  an  old-fashioned  tea-tray, 
or  waiter,  bearing  the  following  inscription :  "  This  tray 
was  purchased  at  the  sale  of  Kingsburgh  House,  Isle  of 
Skye,  in  1826,  by  the  late  General  Campbell,  of  Loch  Nell. 
After  the  burning  of  Loch  Nell  House  it  became  the  prop- 
erty of  the  Rev.  W.  McCalman,  of  Ardchattan,  at  whose 
death  it  was  bought  by  L.  G.  McArthur,  of  Oban,  who  in 

200 


PASTON  HOUSE 

1 88 1  presented  it  to  W.  Black."  Throughout  the  tradition 
has  been  that  from  this  tray  Prince  Charles  Edward  was 
served  when,  under  the  guidance  of  Flora  Macdonald,  he 
was  sheltered  by  the  Macdonalds  of  Kingsburgh  on  his 
escape  from  the  Hebrides. 

The  drawing-room  is  on  the  first  landing  of  the  staircase, 
a  cool,  charming  room,  lighted  by  a  large  bay-window, 
the  centre  of  which  is  filled  in  with  a  miniature  conservatory 
of  flowers.  The  blinds  are  primrose-colored  silk,  a  deeper 
tone  of  which  is  repeated  on  the  walls,  which  have  a  dado 
of  a  very  fine  Indian  or  Japanese  matting,  mounted  in 
ebony.  The  window  is  draped  with  bronze-colored  plush, 
having  at  the  top  and  bottom  wide  bands  of  "  metal  blue." 
An  ebonized  mantel-piece,  elaborately  carved,  and  having 
cabinet-like  niches  and  shelves  for  china,  is  in  artistic 
harmony  with  fireplace  and  fender  of  brass  repousse  work, 
the  dogs  or  standards  being  the  brass  sea-horses  from  a 
Venetian  gondola.  These  and  some  barbaric-looking  but 
magnificently  colored  specimens  of  Moorish  pottery  are 
relics  of  travel  in  the  Adriatic  and  in  the  East,  as  are 
also  some  fine  bits  of  Florentine  embroidery  and  Italian 
silks  that  are  flung  negligently  here  and  there  over  chair 
or  sofa.  On  both  sides  of  the  fireplace  are  inviting  lounges ; 
easy-chairs  are  frequent  incidents  on  the  velvety  carpet; 
so  also  are  cabinets  and  tables.  Upon  the  latter  lie  a  few 
books,  the  latest  Harper's,  an  American  newspaper,  a  pea- 
cock fan ;  and  it  happens  that  some  one  has  been  looking 
at  a  MS.  copy  of  one  of  the  author's  novels,  by  which  token 
I  find  his  MSS.  all  as  neatly  bound  as  they  are  neatly  writ- 
ten. They  occupy  one  of  the  shelves  of  a  small  bookcase. 
Mr.  Black's  caligraphy  is  a  firm,  strong,  unfaltering  hand  ; 
it  is  the  writing  of  a  man  who  has  made  up  his  mind,  and 
is  eminently  characteristic  of  his  method  of  composition. 
The  pictures  upon  the  drawing-room  walls  are  chiefly 
original  sketches  in  black  and  white  made  for  the  Good 

201 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

Words  edition  of  Macleod  of  Dare.  They  include  draw- 
ings by  Orchardson,  Boughton,  Tom  Graham,  and  Wyllie. 
When  the  drawing-room  door  is  open  you  get  a  fine  view 
of  a  broad  canvas  by  Aitken — a  snow-storm  on  a  Scotch 
moor ;  and  it  may  be  noted  here  that  this  picture  is  hung 
upon  what  may  be  called  the  inner-hall  of  the  house,  where 
the  overmantel  is  ornamented  with  some  trophies  of  the 
chase,  including  the  horns  of  a  fine  stag. 

But  it  is  the  writing-room,  or  study,  at  the  top  of  the 
house  that  will  most  interest  the  admirer  of  Mr.  Black's 
novels.  Authors  have  a  general  taste  for  rooms  near 
the  sky.  Do  they  inherit  it  from  the  garret  days  of  their 
predecessors?  I  suspect  the  reason  is  to  be  chiefly  found 
in  the  desire  to  get  away  as  much  as  possible  from  noise. 
..."  I  can't  endure  the  least  noise  when  I  am  writing," 
says  Black ;  "  suddenly  becoming  conscious  that  persons 
are  moving  about  anywhere  near  my  .room,  I  must  lay 
down  my  pen.  I  work  steadily  from  October  to  April  two 
or  three  days  a  week,  and  my  wife  takes  care  that  all 
the  upper  part  of  the  house  is  kept  perfectly  quiet ;  that  is 
why  I  selected  this  room  next  the  roof  for  my  workshop." 
"  Do  you  ever  dictate  any  of  your  work  to  an  amanuensis?" 
"  I  could  not  work  at  all  with  any  one  else  in  the  room  un- 
der any  circumstances,"  he  replied,  with  a  gesture  of  his 
arm  to  emphasize  his  answer.  The  very  notion  of  having 
to  write  with  any  one  in  the  room  seemed  to  be  painful  to 
him ;  and  this  will  be  the  better  appreciated  when  I  repeat 
that  there  is  not  the  smallest  affectation  about  Black  in 
connection  with  his  work.  He  rarely  refers  to  it,  and 
he  certainly  never  praises  it,  nor  courts  either  praise  or 
blame.  He  will  talk  to  you  about  fishing  and  shooting 
and  yachting  with  enthusiasm,  the  delights  of  the  I2th 
of  August,  and  the  excitement  attending  the  shooting  of 
your  first  stag,  as  long  as  you  like,  but  he  will  put  aside 
any  talk  about  his  books  with  singular  promptitude. 

202 


THE  STUDY  AT  PASTON  HOUSE 

Black's  study  is  a  long  room ;  one  side  of  it  is  filled  with 
books,  the  other  has  his  desk  set  between  two  windows 
that  overlook  Paston  Place,  and  at  the  same  time  command 
the  Channel,  freighted  with  distant  ships.  The  desk  is 
very  simply  furnished  with  writing  materials.  On  the 
wall  there  is  an  Admiralty  chart  of  the  western  Highlands, 
a  caricature  of  the  novelist  from  a  comic  paper,  a  couple 
of  water-color  drawings  by  himself  ("Night  in  Camber- 
well  Green  "  and  "  Morning  in  the  Western  Highlands)," 
and  a  pair  of  bronze  medals  designed  by  his  friend  Macphail 
for  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  and  in  a  corner  stand  a 
pair  of  Indian  clubs.  A  simple  room,  plain  even  to  cold- 
ness. No  luxurious  rug  or  easy-chair  breaks  the  monotony 
of  it,  and  no  bit  of  color  feeds  the  eye  unless  you  look  for 
it  in  nature's  own  pictures  of  sky  and  sea  that  are  framed 
by  the  windows.  Examine  the  book-shelves  and  you  shall 
find  the  novelist's  favorite  authors.  They  are  Heine, 
Alfred  de  Musset,  Thackeray,  and  George  Sand,  and  the 
particular  works  of  the  two  last-mentioned  authors  which 
he  has  read  most  are  Esmond  and  Consuelo.  Marcus  Au- 
relius  must  not  be  forgotten  as  one  of  his  constant  literary 
companions.  At  the  same  time  he  is  a  miscellaneous 
reader.  You  can  see  that  his  books  of  modern  poetry, 
politics,  history,  and  travel  are  not  merely  ornamental. 
A  journalist  for  some  years,  as  well  as  a  novelist,  Mr. 
Black  has  found  it  necessary  to  be  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  the  current  literature  of  his  time,  as  well  as  with  those 
classic  authors  of  the  past  whose  wisdom  and  power  are 
the  splendid  heritage  of  the  present.  It  is  always  interest- 
ing to  see  the  author  or  the  painter  or  the  scientist  at  work. 
Black's  work  is  chiefly  done  out  of  doors ;  he  transcribes 
his  plots  in  this  room,  at  the  table — not  in  a  fantastic  garb 
like  Wagner;  not  like  Schiller,  with  a  flask  of  Rhenish 
at  his  elbow ;  not  like  Johnson,  throwing  off  his  Ramblers 
as  the  printers  wanted  them ;  nor  like  Goldsmith,  in  loose 

203 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

apparel;  not  like  Jerrold,  taking  a  turn  at  intervals  in 
his  garden,  though  Black's  desk  is  as  clean  and  neat  and 
devoid  of  litter  as  were  those  of  Jerrold  and  Dickens.  .  .  . 
Black  must  have  quiet,  and  that  is  all. 

I  have  been  led  to  transcribe  so  much  of  this  pict- 
ure of  Paston  House  because  of  the  incidental  light 
which  it  throws  upon  Black  himself,  and  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  struck  a  casual  visitor.  The  ac- 
count of  the  house  is  remarkably  accurate,  and  would 
seem  as  true  to  any  person  admitted  to  it  to-day 
as  it  was  in  Black's  lifetime.  There  is,  however, 
one  rather  curious  omission  in  the  description.  It 
contains  no  mention  of  the  billiard-room  in  which 
Black  was  able  to  enjoy  his  favorite  game.  At  the 
Reform  Club  he  was  one  of  the  regular  frequenters 
of  the  billiard-room,  always  delighting  in  a  game  of 
pool  in  the  afternoon.  When  he  went  to  Brighton 
he  selected  a  house  which  contained  a  billiard-room, 
and  here  he  kept  up  his  proficiency  in  the  game. 
One  of  his  Brighton  neighbors  was  Mr.  Herbert 
Spencer,  and  many  a  game  did  the  two  men — 
the  philosopher  and  the  novelist — enjoy  together  in 
the  billiard-room  at  Paston  House.  Henceforward 
Black  was  to  be  one  of  the  most  familiar  figures  of 
Brighton  life.  The  slight,  well-knit  figure  and  the 
bright,  alert  face  soon  became  known  to  everybody. 
Brighton  was  well  pleased  to  count  him  among  its 
permanent  residents;  and  he  himself  grew  more  and 
more  to  like  the  place,  even  though  he  spoke  of  it  as 
a  place  of  toil  to  be  endured  rather  than  enjoyed 
during  the  annual  task  of  novel- writing.  Always 
fond  of  walking,  he  spent  several  hours  of  those 

204 


WALKS    TO     ROTTINGDEAN 

days  when  he  was  not  chained  to  his  desk  in  long 
excursions  over  the  downs  towards  Lewes,  along 
the  front  to  Worthing,  or,  best-loved  of  all,  by  the 
cliff  road  to  Rottingdean.  That  place  had  not  yet 
been  discovered  by  the  world  of  fashion,  and  though 
the  great  author  who  now  makes  it  his  home  was 
already  familiar  with  it,  he  was  himself  unknown. 
It  can  hardly  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  Black 
walked  from  Paston  House  to  Rottingdean  several 
thousands  of  times.  It  was  an  expedition  of  which 
he  never  seemed  to  tire — as  all  his  friends  soon  got 
to  know.  Nor  can  I  remember  many  pleasanter 
walks  than  those  which  I  had  with  him  along  that 
familiar  road  on  the  top  of  the  cliffs,  the  breezy  downs 
on  one  hand,  the  great  expanse  of  the  Channel,  now 
shining  in  the  summer  sun  and  now  raging  furiously 
in  a  winter  gale,  on  the  other.  The  scenery  along 
the  route,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  monotonous;  but 
I  always  thought  that  it  was  a  relief  to  Black  to 
find  himself  in  a  place  where  there  was  little  scope 
for  the  descriptive  writer,  and  no  need  for  that  kind 
of  mental  photography  which  enabled  him  to  com- 
mit to  memory  all  the  features  of  any  new  or  pict- 
uresque scene.  The  cold  winds  blowing  from  the 
east  buffeted  him  and  his  companion  fiercely  as  they 
strode  onward  together;  and  it  was  only  at  inter- 
vals that  the  silence  between  them  was  broken  by 
speech;  though  it  was  my  experience  that,  in  these 
walks  to  Rottingdean,  Black  was  more  willing  to 
talk  about  his  own  work  than  at  any  other  time. 
The  brisk  movement,  the  strenuous  fight  against 
the  gale,  the  glorious  sense  of  release  from  the  haunts 

205 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

of  men  and  the  pressure  of  daily  life,  which  was 
borne  in  upon  one  by  the  open  expanse  of  sea  and 
downs,  seemed  to  have  an  exhilarating  effect  upon 
Black.  "The  cobwebs  are  all  being  blown  out 
of  our  brains/'  he  would  shout  to  his  companion 
through  the  roar  of  the  gale;  and  then  he  would 
confide  to  him  some  difficulty  which  had  troubled 
him  in  his  work,  but  which  now,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  walk  and  the  rushing  winds,  had  van- 
ished. And  at  last  the  red  roofs  of  the  little  hamlet 
nestling  in  the  cleft  of  the  downs  would  be  sighted, 
and  we  would  descend  to  the  quaint  old  inn  and  rest 
there  for  a  space  before  the  welcome  fire  ere  setting 
forth  on  our  return  to  Brighton. 

There  was  another  favorite  promenade  of  his  in 
close  proximity  to  Paston  House.  This  was  the  old 
chain  pier,  once  the  glory  of  fashionable  Brighton, 
but  in  Black's  time  a  decaying  and  deserted  relic 
of  the  past.  The  gay  world  in  Brighton  had  moved 
westward  towards  Hove,  and  the  new  pier  near  the 
Bedford  Hotel  had  become  the  favorite  lounge.  The 
old  chain  pier  was  practically  deserted,  except  by 
pairs  of  lovers  anxious  to  avoid  the  crowd,  or  at 
certain  times  by  children  and  their  nurse-maids. 
To  Black  it  became,  as  it  were,  the  quarter-deck  of 
his  ship,  to  which  he  could  retire  when  he  wished 
to  commune  with  himself.  Here,  accordingly,  he 
might  be  seen  in  all  weathers,  tramping  monoto- 
nously to  and  fro  by  the  hour  at  a  stretch.  The 
keepers  of  the  pier  and  of  the  old-fashioned  little 
shops  at  the  entrance  soon  became  accustomed  to 
the  sight,  and  learned  that  when  Black  was  prom- 

206 


THE    OLD     PIER 

enading  in  this  fashion  he  must  on  no  account  be 
disturbed.  For  the  chain  pier  became  his  favorite 
resort  when  he  was  beating  out  in  his  brain  the 
story  upon  which  he  was  engaged.  It  was  while 
pacing  the  weather-beaten  structure  from  end  to 
end  that  he  composed  the  chapters  which  he  sub- 
sequently committed  to  paper  in  his  study  in  Paston 
House.  Often  the  Brightonians,  who  knew  him 
well,  would  point  to  him  as  they  watched  him  from 
the  heights  of  the  Kemptown  cliffs,  and  explain  to 
the  passing  stranger  that  it  was  William  Black 
who  was  walking  with  rapid  steps  up  and  down  the 
deserted  pier,  and  that  he  was  engaged  in  compos- 
ing one  of  his  stories.  And  for  once  popular  gossip 
was  absolutely  accurate.  The  first  germ  of  each 
successive  novel,  even  the  first  crude  outline  of  the 
plot,  might  be  formed  anywhere;  but  from  the  time 
when  he  made  his  home  at  Brighton  all  his  novels 
were  really  composed,  thought  out,  and  prepared 
for  the  final  stage  of  writing  during  those  restless 
tramps  on  the  old  chain  pier. 

Those  early  years  at  Brighton  must  have  been 
among  the  brightest  of  his  life.  He  was  at  the 
height  of  his  popularity,  his  working  powers  were 
quite  unimpaired,  he  was  most  happy  in  his  home 
life  and  in  the  devoted  love  of  wife  and  children, 
and  though  he  had  even  then  begun  to  experience 
the  first  symptoms  of  the  nervous  affection  from 
which  he  afterwards  suffered  so  acutely,  he  had 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  it  was  more  than  some 
passing  ailment  by  which  he  was  affected.  His 
circle  of  friends  in  Brighton  was  not  a  large  one, 

207 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

though  it  included  more  than  one  man  and  woman 
whose  friendship  he  greatly  prized.  But  Brighton 
is,  after  all,  a  suburb  of  London,  and  week  by  week 
there  came  to  Paston  House  to  enjoy  its  superabun- 
dant hospitality  the  representatives  of  that  wider 
London  circle  which  he  had  gathered  around  him. 
It  was  at  Paston  House,  too,  that  he  received  not  a 
few  of  the  admirers  who  came  to  him  from  afar  to 
thank  him  for  the  pleasure  that  he  had  given  them 
by  his  works.  Many  Americans  and  many  visitors 
from  all  parts  of  Great  Britain  found  their  way  to 
Paston  House  as  to  a  shrine  at  which  they  wished 
to  pay  their  homage.  Black,  it  must  be  said,  never 
enjoyed  this  special  feature  of  his  popularity.  Noth- 
ing irked  or  vexed  him  more  than  open  praise;  and 
whenever  he  could  he  devolved  upon  his  wife  the 
task  of  receiving  the  mere  admirers  who  came  to 
him  with  loud-spoken  adulation.  But  those  who 
had  some  justification  for  their  visit — men  and  women 
introduced  by  old  friends,  or  others  whom  he  knew 
by  reputation  —  were  received  with  unfailing  cord- 
iality and  kindliness,  so  that  the  drawing-room  at 
Paston  House  became,  and  for  years  continued  to 
be,  the  most  favored  spot  in  Brighton,  the  place 
where  one  was  most  certain  of  meeting  any  visitor 
to  the  town  of  special  interest.  There  was,  indeed, 
sunshine  all  about  his  path  in  those  days.  The 
description  of  his  house  which  I  have  conveyed 
from  the  pages  of  Harper's  Magazine  furnishes  an 
index  not  only  to  his  taste,  but  to  his  material  pros- 
perity. The  days  of  struggle  and  poverty  had 
been  very  few  in  his  case;  but  he  had  now  attained 

208 


VISITORS     FROM    LONDON 

a  position  which  placed  him,  so  far  as  mere  wealth 
was  concerned,  far  above  all  but  a  few  of  his  contem- 
poraries in  the  writing  world,  and  his  lot  would  have 
seemed  to  all  an  enviable  one  if  there  had  been  any 
who  were  capable  of  being  envious  of  his  well-deserved 
success.  One  great  attraction  at  Brighton,  as  I  have 
said,  was  its  nearness  to  London.  The  town  was 
reached  so  easily  and  in  so  short  a  time  by  his  Lon- 
don friends  that  Black  was  wont  to  declare  that  he 
saw  more  of  them  than  when  he  lived  in  Camber- 
well  Grove.  The  statement  was  perfectly  true. 
Paston  House  became  the  recognized  Sunday  ren- 
dezvous of  those  who  were  on  friendly  terms  with  its 
owner,  and  the  luncheon-parties  on  that  day  almost 
invariably  included  a  fair  proportion  of  well-known 
people — authors,  artists,  actors,  politicians,  and  oth- 
ers whom  Black  had  drawn  into  the  circle  of  his 
friendships. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Black  that  he  could  play 
and  work  with  equal  zest  and  enthusiasm.  Those 
who  only  saw  him  in  the  free  hours  that  he  devoted 
to  hospitality  or  sport  could  not  have  imagined  that 
the  man  who  threw  himself  with  so  much  energy 
into  the  task  of  entertaining  his  friends,  and  who 
seemed  to  have  no  thought  for  anything  but  the 
enjoyment  of  the  moment,  was  capable  of  the  intense 
self-absorption  that  characterized  him  when  at  work. 
Paston  House  on  the  working -days  was  changed 
altogether  from  the  aspect  it  wore  on  those  pleasant 
Saturdays  and  Sundays  when  every  friend  was 
welcomed  within  its  portals.  The  rooms  no  longer 
rang  with  the  laughter  of  a  merry  and  congenial 
14  209 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

company.  Silence  brooded  over  the  whole  house, 
and  everything  was  made  to  give  way  to  the  con- 
ditions that  the  master  had  found  to  be  essential 
when  working.  He  needed  —  and  the  necessity 
grew  as  time  passed — absolute  quiet  and  solitude 
for  his  work;  nor  could  he  write  in  unfamiliar  sur- 
roundings; anything  fresh  or  novel  distracted  his 
mind,  and  brought  him  back  to  that  real  world  from 
which  he  withdrew  when  he  was  dealing  with  the 
creatures  of  his  imagination. 

I  am  indebted  to  his  wife  for  some  particulars  of 
his  mode  of  work.  The  autumn  holiday  with  his 
family  was  usually  taken  for  the  purpose  of  study- 
ing the  background  of  scenery  for  his  coming  novel, 
or  in  order  to  refresh  his  memory  upon  some  special 
point.  The  novels  were  generally  begun  on  the 
return  to  Brighton  in  the  early  autumn,  and,  with 
one  or  two  short  stories,  each  took  about  a  year  to 
write.  He  worked  on  alternate  days,  taking  long 
walks  of  twenty  miles  or  more  over  the  Downs  or 
along  the  coast  on  the  non-writing-days.  In  these 
walks  he  used  to  "think  out"  to  the  smallest  de- 
tail the  next  chapter  of  the  story,  committing  it  al- 
most textually  to  memory.  Sometimes  for  months 
he  would  have  some  portion  ready  in  his  mind  to 
put  on  paper,  and  great  was  the  relief  when  he  was 
at  last  able  to  write  it  down  in  its  proper  place  in  the 
book.  On  one  occasion  he  had  a  whole  chapter 
ready  in  his  mind  for  over  two  months.  For  his 
backgrounds  he  made  very  minute  and  definite 
notes  in  little  note-books  which  he  used  to  carry 
about  for  that  purpose.     In  these  note-books  he  de- 

210 


MODE    OF    WORK 

scribed  fully  every  detail  of  light  and  shade,  color- 
ing and  foliage,  in  any  scene  that  he  wished  to  de- 
scribe, thus  making  word  pictures  of  the  place  he 
wished  to  write  about.  He  was  very  particular 
about  accuracy,  and  consulted  doctors  for  medical 
points,  lawyers  for  legal,  and  indeed  any  one  who 
could  give  him  information  on  a  point  arising  in 
his  story  about  which  he  was  uncertain.  He  spared 
himself  no  amount  of  trouble  in  this  preliminary 
labor;  but  when  once  he  had  written  out  a  chapter 
he  rarely  altered  it  even  in  a  word.  On  writing- 
days  he  always  worked  for  about  six  hours.  After 
a  light  breakfast,  which  he  took  alone,  he  went 
straight  to  his  study  without  seeing  any  one,  and 
wrote  from  about  half-past  nine  to  one.  He  then 
took  a  simple  luncheon,  which  was  laid  for  him  in 
an  adjoining  room,  so  that  he  could  have  it  alone 
and  without  distraction  of  any  kind ;  rested  for  about 
an  hour,  and  then  wrote  again  for  about  three  hours. 
While  he  was  at  his  desk,  silence  the  most  absolute 
was  maintained  in  the  upper  regions  of  the  house 
in  which  his  work-room  was  situated.  His  wife 
made  it  her  business  to  insure  this,  watching  over 
him  in  this,  as  in  so  many  other  matters,  with  a 
devotion  that  could  not  have  been  surpassed.  The 
plain  little  room  in  which  he  wrote  commanded  a 
view  over  the  chimneys  of  Kemptown  as  well  as  a 
glimpse  of  the  sea.  The  prospect  exactly  suited 
Black.  He  desired  to  see  nothing  that  could  dis- 
tract his  mind,  or  withdraw  him  from  his  absorp- 
tion in  the  mental  visions  which  he  had  conjured 
up,  the  scenery  and  the  characters  of  his  own  crea- 

211 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

tion.  His  writing  -  desk  was  placed  against  the 
wall  between  two  windows,  and  above  it  hung  the 
portrait  of  an  old  friend.  There  was  nothing  ees- 
thetic  in  the  room.  It  was  stern  and  prosaic  to  the 
last  degree.  Its  furniture  was  certainly  not  lux- 
urious. The  couch  upon  which  he  rested  after 
luncheon  on  his  writing-days  was  old  and  worn. 
Everything  in  the  room  was  of  a  severe  simplicity. 
As  one  stands  in  it  now,  too  conscious  of  the  ab- 
sence of  its  master,  it  is  impossible  not  to  think  of 
the  fair  scenes  which  have  been  conjured  up  within 
it;  of  the  heroic  men  and  lovely  women  who  have 
peopled  it  in  the  silence  of  those  writing-days;  of 
the  bright  episodes  of  sport  or  adventure  which 
have  grown  into  life  at  yonder  desk.  It  is  a  strik- 
ing contrast  to  the  thoughts  which  it  evokes;  this 
plain  little  room,  with  its  dull  outlook  across  the 
house-tops  of  Brighton  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the 
other  all  that  glowing  panorama  of  pictures  on  land 
and  sea  which  the  hand  of  Black  has  painted  to 
be  a  delight  to  his  readers  forever.  Yet  when  one 
sees  this  work-room,  and  remembers  the  long  days 
and  months  and  years  in  which  Black  labored  in 
it,  one  gets  a  fuller  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  he 
was  really  a  dweller  in  two  worlds  than  is  to  be  ob- 
tained by  any  other  means.  When  once  he  was 
seated  at  his  desk,  Brighton  and  the  world  around 
him  disappeared,  and  he  entered  into  the  world 
that  he  had  fashioned  for  himself.  The  silence  of 
the  house  prevented  any  interruption  of  the  dream 
that  was  to  him  so  intensely  real.  He  did  not  see  the 
walls  of  his  home,  but  the  visions  of  loch  and  moun- 

212 


"SUNRISE  " 

tain  that  he  had  to  describe;  while  the  men  and 
women  with  whom  he  held  converse  in  that  silent, 
lonely  chamber  were  the  creatures  of  his  own  brain, 
the  children  born  of  his  imagination,  who  for  the 
moment  were  more  dear  to  him,  and  infinitely  more 
real,  than  the  people  of  every-day  life  who  lay  be- 
yond the  door  which  shut  him  in  with  his  fancies. 

No  caller  was  ever  admitted  to  Paston  House  to 
see  Black  on  those  days  of  work.  Even  the  chil- 
dren of  the  house  knew  that  for  that  day  they  must 
remain  under  a  restraining  influence.  It  was  only 
out-of-doors  or  in  their  own  room,  far  away  from 
that  in  which  their  father  worked,  that  they  could 
enjoy  the  freedom  in  which  childhood  delights.  The 
faithful  wife  guarded  the  portals  of  the  writing- 
room  with  a  care  as  great  as  that  with  which  a  sen- 
tinel guards  the  home  of  his  monarch,  resolutely 
bent  on  preserving  it  from  the  slightest  murmur  of 
the  great  world  outside. 

In  1880  Black  was  busy  with  a  story  that  dif- 
fered in  many  respects  from  any  that  he  had  yet 
written,  and  that  he  himself  came  subsequently  to 
regard  as  his  best  piece  of  work.  This  was  Sun- 
rise. The  public  did  not  ratify  Black's  own  ver- 
dict upon  the  book.  Everybody  admitted  its  merit; 
but,  as  those  who  have  read  it  will  remember,  it  is 
a  tale  of  intrigue  and  adventure,  of  secret  societies 
and  dark  political  plottings.  As  usual,  the  book 
was  constructed  with  extreme  care,  and  the  back- 
grounds were  invariably  drawn  from  life.  He  in- 
troduced his  own  rooms  in  Buckingham  Street  into 
the  tale,  and  he  went  to  Switzerland  and  Italy  in 

213 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

the  autumn  of  the  year  for  the  special  purpose  of 
procuring  "  local  color  "  for  the  book.     In  the  spring 
he  had  taken  a  shorter  journey,  from  which  we  had 
hoped  he  would  reap  scenes  for  his  pen;  but  an  ac- 
cident cut  short  the  tour,  and,  so  far  as  I  know,  he 
never  used  it  in  any  of  his  books.     This  was  a  drive 
to  visit  the   ruined    abbeys   of  eastern  Yorkshire. 
Sir  George  Wombwell,  of  Balaclava  fame,  had  in- 
vited a  small  party  to  accompany  him  on  such  a 
drive.     Black,  Bret  Harte,  Mr.  Shepard,  the  Amer- 
ican Vice  -  Consul  at   Bradford,  and  myself,  were 
Sir  George's  guests.     We  met  at  York  one  Satur- 
day morning  in  April,  and  as  our  host  was  not  to 
arrive  till  dinner-time  we  resolved  to  spend  the  after- 
noon in  a  visit  to  the  battle-field  of  Marston  Moor. 
Black  was  delighted  with  all  that  he  saw ;  delighted, 
too,  with  the  companionship  of  Bret  Harte  and  of 
Shepard,  and  full  of  that  eager  interest  in  everything 
new  which  distinguished  him  when  he  was  mak- 
ing notes  with  the  intention  of  using  them  in  his 
work.     Unluckily,  in  scrambling  over  a  hedge  on 
the  battle-field  I  had  a  fall,  and  twisted  my  knee  so 
severely  that  for  months  afterwards  I  was  an  ab- 
solute cripple.     At  the  moment  I  had  no  idea  of 
the  severity  of  my  injuries,  and  made  light  of  them, 
so  that   my  companions   naturally   made   light  of 
them  also.     We  were  to  dine  at  the  Yorkshire  Club 
that  evening  with  Sir  George  Wombwell,  and  as 
Black,  who  had  never  met  Sir  George,  and  who 
was  always  shy  of  strangers,  declared  that  he  would 
not  go  to  the  dinner  unless  I  went  also,  I  accom- 
panied the  party  to  the  club,  though  by  rights  I 

214 


BRET    HARTE 

ought  to  have  been  in  bed.  I  remember  few  more 
lively  evenings  than  that.  Black  and  Bret  Harte, 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  just  made,  vied  with 
each  other  in  the  good  stories  they  told  and  the  rep- 
artees they  exchanged,  so  that  even  the  acute  pain 
that  I  was  suffering  did  not  prevent  my  enjoyment 
of  Black's  humor  in  one  of  his  brightest  moods. 
But  the  next  morning  I  was  in  the  hands  of  the  doc- 
tor and  confined  to  bed.  Black  spent  most  of  the 
day  with  me  in  my  bedroom,  and  no  one  would  have 
imagined  from  the  merriment  which  filled  the  cham- 
ber that  it  contained  a  seriously  injured  man.  On 
the  following  day  I  was  conveyed  to  my  own  home, 
to  spend  the  next  three  months  in  bed;  but  neither 
Black  nor  I  had  the  slightest  idea  of  the  gravity  of 
my  injuries,  and  at  my  urgent  request  he  started 
on  the  driving  tour. 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Reform  Club, 

May  i,  1880. 
MY  DEAR  REID, — I  should  be  glad  of  a  line  to  know 
how  you  are.  I  hope  you  will  not  attempt  to  stir  until 
your  knee  is  thoroughly  well;  for  if  you  do,  you  will 
run  the  risk  of  the  thing  becoming  chronic.  The  trip  to 
Xcwburgh  and  Rievaulx  was  very  interesting;  but  with 
you  invalided  out,  I  thought  it  was  much  better  to  post- 
pone the  rest.  Bret  Harte  went  down  to  us  at  Brighton, 
and  if  we  didn't  amuse  him  he  certainly  amused  us. 
He  is  coming  down  again  next  week.  That  wretch  Shep- 
ard  insisted  on  paying  our  hotel  bills ;  surely  that,  as  the 
languishing  nobleman  remarked,  was  not  in  the  contract? 
But  we  may  have  our  revenge  some  day. 

Always  yours,  WILLIAM  BLACK. 

215 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

To  the  same. 

Reform  Club, 

June  2,  1880. 
MY  DEAR  REID, — Let  me  know  how  you  are  getting  on. 
I  was  horrified  to  hear  of  your  going  out  so  soon ;  you  don't 
seem  to  know  what  care  must  be  taken  of  injuries  to  the 
knee  to  prevent  the  accursed  thing  from  becoming  perma- 
nent or  chronic.  For  you  to  talk  of  "  going  away  "  for  ever 
so  long  yet  is  simple  madness.  Possess  your  soul  in  pa- 
tience ;  it  will  be  better  for  you  in  the  end.  And  in  a  few 
weeks'  time  don't  be  surprised  if  Bret  Harte  and  I  come 
and  look  you  up — that  is,  if  he  is  not  compelled  for  mere 
shame's  sake  to  go  to  his  consular  duties  (!  !  !)  at  once. 
He  is  the  most  extraordinary  globule  of  mercury — comet 
— aerolite  gone  drunk — flash  of  lightning  doing  Catherine 
wheels — I  ever  had  any  experience  of.  Nobody  knows 
where  he  is,  and  the  day  before  yesterday  I  discovered  here 
a  pile  of  letters  that  had  been  slowly  accumulating  for 
him  since  February,  1879.  It  seems  he  never  reported 
himself  to  the  all-seeing  Escott  (the  hall  porter)  and  never 
asked  for  letters  when  he  got  his  month's  honorary  mem- 
bership last  year.  People  are  now  sending  letters  to  him 
from  America  addressed  to  me  at  Brighton!  But  he  is 
a  mystery  and  the  cause  of  mystifications.  I  heard  the 
other  day  that  a  society  paper  had  printed  a  minute  ac- 
count of  how  I  had  been  driving  B.  H.  and  other  friends 
in  Yorkshire  in  a  phaeton,  had  upset  the  whole  concern 
and  half  murdered  nearly  all  the  party.  This  is  as  close 
to  nature  as  we  can  go  for  sixpence.  I  remember  a  para- 
graph in  the  American  papers  saying  that  I  had  gone  to 
see  my  sister  in  Tennessee.  Having  no  sister  in  America, 
and  never  having  been  near  Tennessee,  I  could  not  un- 
derstand what  it  meant,  until  long  after  Huxley  told  me 
that  at  about  that  time  he  had  gone  to  see  his  brother  in 
Tennessee.     Such  is  life,  and  other  poems.     All  the  people 

216 


A    STORY    OF    TENNYSON 

here  are  as  usual,  except  Payn,  who,  I  fear,  must  be  laid 
up  with  rheumatics.     Again  I  beseech  you  for  a  line. 

Always  yours, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

July  31,  1880. 
MY  DEAR  REID, — I  am  exceedingly  glad  to  hear  that 
you  are  out  and  about  again.  I  wrote  you  about  a  month 
ago,  and  getting  no  answer,  began  to  fear  you  were  rather 
bad;  but  I  hope  you  will  take  to  heart  the  warning  you 
got  after  the  Gladstone  meeting,  and  let  your  knee  have 
sufficient  rest  to  get  thoroughly  cured.  I  wanted  Harte 
to  arrange  a  raid  on  you ;  but  that  faithless  cuss  never 
turned  up  again  after  leaving  me  in  Oban,  and  Norman 
Lockyer  and  I  ran  out  our  term  of  leave  to  the  last  minute, 
so  that  I  had  no  chance  of  stopping  at  Leeds  on  the  journey 
south.  But  I  saw  the  place  on  coming  through.  Oh, 
holy  Moses!  I  thought  my  native  Glasgow  was  bad 
enough ;  but  surely  Leeds  beats  it  for  smoke.  I  hope  you 
live  somewhere  out  of  the  town.  There  were  some  fine 
houses  along  the  crest  of  a  hill  about  half  an  hour  before 
our  getting  to  Leeds.  I  hope  to  hear  of  your  purchasing 
one  of  these  soon,  and  settling  down  as  the  originator 
of  a  county  family,  far  away  from  printers'  devils.  Speak- 
ing of  which,  Lockyer  told  me  of  Tennyson  having  come 
to  South  Kensington  to  see  some  marvel  of  the  heavens, 
and  turning  away  from  the  telescope  with  the  remark, 
"  After  seeing  that  one  does  not  think  so  much  of  the  county 
families."  We  shall  not  be  going  away,  I  expect,  till 
the  beginning  of  September.  Shall  you  be  in  London 
before  then?  I  could  run  up  to  have  a  chat  with  you,  or 
you  might  come  down  here  for  a  day  or  two's  rest.  Bret 
Harte  was  to  have  been  back  from  Paris  last  night,  but  he 

217 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

is  a  wandering  comet.  The  only  place  he  is  sure  not  to 
be  found  in  is  at  the  Glasgow  Consulate.  Let  me  hear 
how  you  are  soon. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

To  John  Whyte. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

July  31,  1880. 
MY  DEAR  WHYTE,— I  am  afraid  your  letter  must  have 
been  written  sarcastical,  for  I  also  have  been  in  the  High- 
lands. I  suddenly  found  myself  liberated,  and  took  the 
occasion  of  Bret  Harte's  going  to  Glasgow  to  lug  him 
through  with  me  to  Oban,  expecting  to  find  Colin  Hunter 
at  Iona.  That  faithless  cuss,  however,  I  discovered  was 
on  the  east  coast,  and  so  I  was  lucky  enough  to  fall  in 
with  Norman  Lockyer,  the  astronomer.  He  and  I  had 
a  few  days'  fishing,  and  then  I  came  back  to  get  ready  for 
our  more  extended  autumn  prowl.  Confound  that  Oban  I 
I  never  go  there  but  I  buy  pictures  which  I  can't  afford. 
But  we  had  the  most  delightful  weather,  and  now  Mrs. 
Millais  writes  me  from  the  Craig-ard  Hotel  that  it  is  pouring 
in  torrents.  Was  Mrs.  Whyte  with  you?  Give  her  my 
best  regards.  I  shall  never  forget  that  dinner-party  at 
which  I  last  met  her.  I  think  she  saw  the  fun  of  it.  No- 
body but  Leigh  Hunt  or  Sidney  Smith  could  have  described 
the  amiable  simplicity  and  solemnity  with  which  they 
regarded  the  most  obvious  joke,  and  if  Charles  Lamb  had 
been  there  he  would  have  repeated  his  performance  of 
taking  a  candle  and  examining  the  skulls  of  some  of  the 
people.  Adieu.  Next  time  you  come  up  take  an  extra 
day  and  run  down  here,  and  I  will  show  you  some  sea- 
pieces  that  will  make  your  mouth  water. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 
218 


THE    SCOTCH    SENSE    OF    HUMOR 

One  proof  of  the  extent  to  which  Black  was  im- 
bued with  the  Celtic  spirit  was  to  be  found  in  the 
slight  degree  of  good-natured  contempt  in  which 
he  held  the  Lowland  Scot  of  a  certain  type.  His 
inability  to  see  a  joke  was  his  crowning  offence  in 
the  eyes  of  Black,  whose  own  sense  of  humor  was 
so  highly  developed  and  so  keen.  He  had  a  fa- 
vorite story,  which  I  have  often  heard  him  tell,  that 
he  used  as  an  illustration  of  the  matter-of-fact  real- 
ism that  distinguishes  many  of  his  fellow-coun- 
trymen. Somebody  was  telling  a  Scotsman  a  mar- 
vellous tale  which  he  had  just  been  reading.  A 
certain  Eastern  potentate,  having  taken  offence 
at  the  doings  of  his  grand  vizier,  had  ordered 
him  to  be  put  to  death.  The  victim  knew  that  he 
must  die,  but  wished  to  die  as  comfortably  as  pos- 
sible. He  was  aware  that  his  master's  chief  exe- 
cutioner was  a  proficient  in  the  art  of  despatching 
his  fellow-creatures,  and  could  send  them  out  of  the 
world  not  only  with  incredible  swiftness,  but  with 
no  appreciable  suffering.  Accordingly  he  sent  for 
the  executioner,  and  offered  him  a  very  large  sum 
of  money  on  condition  that  he  put  him  to  death 
without  pain.  The  official  promised  to  do  his  best, 
and  the  grand  vizier  went  to  his  doom  in  a  frame  of 
pious  resignation.  Kneeling  down  to  receive  the 
fatal  blow  he  was  conscious  that  the  sword  of  the 
executioner  was  whirled  about  his  head,  but  he 
felt  nothing.  Opening  his  eyes,  he  reproached  the 
man,  saying,  "How  is  this?  You  undertook  for 
a  large  sum  of  money  to  put  me  to  death  instan- 
taneously and  without  pain,  yet  you  are  only  play- 

219 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

ing  with  me  and  prolonging  my  misery.  Do  thy 
work  quickly."  Thereupon  the  executioner  stepped 
up  to  the  condemned  man  and  offered  him  a  pinch 
of  snuff.  The  vizier  took  the  pinch  of  snuff  and 
sneezed,  and  his  head  forthwith  tumbled  from  his 
shoulders.  This  is  the  story  which,  according  to 
Black,  was  told  to  a  fellow  -  countryman  of  his. 
The  latter,  having  heard  it,  uttered  an  interroga- 
tive "Well?"  "Well!"  repeated  his  interlocutor, 
"what  do  you  mean?"  "I  am  waiting  for  the  fin- 
ish of  your  story,"  said  the  Scot.  "  But  you've 
got  the  finish,"  said  the  other.  "  Don't  you  see 
that  the  executioner  was  so  clever  that  he  cut 
the  fellow's  neck  in  two  without  letting  him  feel 
it?"  "Ou  aye,  I  ken  that  weel  eneugh,  but  that's 
not  the  point.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  did  the 
executioner  get  his  money?"  And  this,  according 
to  Black,  was  a  typical  example  of  the  point  of 
view  of  a  certain  class  among  his  fellow-country- 
men. 

It  was  not  only  among  his  fellow-countrymen 
that  he  discovered  the  lack  of  that  humor  which 
gladdens  the  heart  of  the  observer  of  life.  One  ex- 
perience of  his  own,  on  which  he  was  fond  of  dwell- 
ing, took  place  at  the  dinner  of  a  very  august  body 
at  which  he  was  a  guest.  Two  rich  gentlemen, 
with  "  self-made  "  written  large  all  over  them,  in- 
quired with  an  air  of  patronage  what  line  of  business 
he  was  in.  On  his  meekly  replying  that  he  wrote 
novels  they  expressed  their  surprise  and  pleasure 
at  meeting  a  person  of  his  class.  The  first  gentle- 
man said,   "I   like  to  meet  littery  people.     I  buy 

220 


SCOTCH    SELF-POSSESSION 

books.  I've  got  a  library  of  six  'undred  volumes, 
all  bound  in  full  calf.  I've  got  all  the  works  of 
Thackeray  and  Dickenson,  and  if  j^ou'll  tell  me 
the  names  of  yours  I'll  buy  them,  too.  I've  never 
read  them."  The  second  gentleman,  anxious  to 
atone  for  his  friend's  indiscretion,  kicked  his  shins 
under  the  table,  and  said,  "Oh  yes,  you  have,  but 
you've  forgotten  them."  Clearly  Black  found  little 
to  distinguish  between  the  dull  man  on  one  side  of 
the  Tweed  and  the  other.  He  liked,  however,  the 
sturdy  independence  with  which  the  Scot,  even  when 
he  finds  that  he  has  made  a  mistake,  maintains  his 
self-possession.  It  was  during  one  of  his  37achting 
tours  on  the  west  coast  about  this  time  that  he  went 
into  a  small  post-office  at  a  remote  place  to  send  off 
a  telegram.  The  owner  sold  books,  and  importuned 
Black  to  buy  some  of  his  own  novels.  "Every  one 
buys  Black's  books  when  they  come  up  here."  At 
last  Black,  to  get  rid  of  the  man's  attentions,  was 
compelled  to  say,  "Well,  these  books  are  of  no  use 
to  me,  for  I  wrote  them  myself."  The  man  stared 
in  evident  incredulity  at  the  person  who  made  this 
bold  assertion,  but  when  Black  handed  in  his  tele- 
gram, which  he  had  duly  signed,  he  realized  the 
truth,  and  said,  patronizingly,  'Well,  if  you  are 
William  Black,  I  must  say  you're  a  very  clever 
fellow." 

Black's  Scotch-American  friend,  Mr.  Crerar,  to 
whom  he  had  been  indebted  for  many  kindnesses, 
both  during  his  visit  to  America  and  subsequently, 
and  through  whom  he  had  been  elected  a  vice-presi- 
dent of  the  New  York  Burns  Society,  was  in  the 

221 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

habit  of  sending  him  every  year  a  Christmas  gift.  In 
1880,  through  some  accident,  he  was  unable  to  do 
this. 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

December  22,  1880. 
MY  DEAR  Mr.  CRERAR,— I  am  exceedingly  glad  that 
your  kind  intentions  have  been  frustrated  this  year ;  first, 
because  we  have  too  often  impinged  on  your  good-nature 
in  this  way;  and,  secondly,  because  we  are  going  from 
home  for  Christmas.  But  we  thank  you  most  heartily 
all  the  same,  and  Mr.  Sutherland,  too.  When  is  he  coming 
over  to  buy  that  Scotch  moor?  I  had  a  note  the  other 
day  from  Lord  Rosebery,  asking  me  to  go  to  his  place 
in  Buckinghamshire.  I  could  not  go,  but  if  I  had,  don't 
you  think  the  two  honorary  vice-presidents  of  the  New 
York  Burns  Society  (is  that  right?)  would  certainly  have 
drunk  your  health,  seeing  it  is  so  near  Christmas?  My 
wife  and  I  send  you  our  best  greetings  of  the  season. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

P.S. — I  should  like  to  send  you  a  few  bottles  of  real  moun- 
tain dew  I  have  just  had  down  from  the  Highlands.  How 
could  it  be  managed?  Do  you  know  the  purser  of  any 
steamer  who  would  convey  them  without  "  preeing " 
them  on  the  way?  I  am  not  much  of  a  judge  of  whiskey 
myself,  but  I  know  this  has  been  four  years  in  bond,  and 
people  who  have  drunk  enough  in  their  lives  say  it  is  good. 

To  the  same. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

December  23,  1880. 
MY  DEAR  CRERAR,— It  is  really  very  kind  of  you  to 
send  us  those  birds,  and  both  my  wife  and  myself  are  ex- 

222 


A     CHRISTMAS     PRESENT 

ceedingly  pleased  to  be  reminded  of  you  (not  that  that 
was  necessary)  in  so  substantial  a  fashion.  You  will 
be  glad  to  know  that  they  have  arrived  in  capital  condi- 
tion ;  and  the  turkey  is  so  exceptionally  fine  a  fellow  that 
we  propose  to  have  his  plumage  made  a  sort  of  trophy  of 
to  fix  up  in  our  hall  under  some  huge  horns  that  also  came 
from  America — from  Hudson's  Bay  territory.  But  you 
don't  say  anything  about  yourself  in  your  note.  How 
are  you  getting  on  in  health  and  business?  ...  I  am 
very  glad  to  see  by  the  occasional  Scotsman  you  send  me 
that  our  countrymen  don't  seem  to  lose  any  of  their  clannish- 
ness;  likewise  that  the  Burns  Society  flourishes.  Ought 
I  to  subscribe  to  their  eleemosynary  funds?  Or  perhaps 
it  would  be  better  this  way:  that  if  you  chanced  on  any 
case  of  distress  you  might  let  me  know  and  I  could  send 
you  some  contribution.  The  Scotch  societies  in  London 
do  a  great  deal  of  good — especially  in  the  way  of  education. 
I  see  by  your  paper  that  George  Macdonald  has  got  a  house 
at  Bordighera.  We  came  through  there  in  October,  my 
wife  and  myself  having  been  for  about  three  months  in 
Italy  this  year.  When  are  you  coming  over?  Are  there 
no  books  you  would  like  to  have  sent  you?  If  there  are, 
I  wish  you  would  tell  me  without  ceremony,  and  I  could 
have  them  forwarded  by  one  of  your  steward  friends.  With 
heartiest  Christmas  wishes  from  my  wife  (that  wonderful 
photograph  which  she  has  never  had  done  since  she  was 
married  hasn't  come  off  yet)  and  myself, 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

Sunrise  having  been  written,  Black  was  able  to 
enjoy  another  long  holiday  in  1881.  Early  in  the 
year  he  went  to  Leeds  to  be  my  guest  for  a  few  days. 
I  was  anxious  that  due  honor  should  be  done  to  one 
whose   literary   merits   were   only   equalled   by   his 

223 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

modesty,  and  I  gave  a  large  dinner-party  at  which 
he  was  the  principal  guest.  Without  telling  him 
beforehand  my  intention,  I  proposed  his  health, 
hoping  that  as  the  gathering  was  a  private  one  he 
would  not  object  to  make  a  speech  to  the  circle  of 
admirers  who  surrounded  him.  Here  is  a  verbatim 
report  of  his  reply:  "When  1  left  King's  Cross  the 
other  day  I  took  a  ticket  for  Leeds,  as  I  meant  to  go 
to  Yorkshire;  but  there  must  have  been  some  mis- 
take on  the  road,  for  1  have  been  made  so  much  at 
home  here  that  I  must  have  been  carried  to  Scotland 
without  knowing  it."  It  was  a  good  beginning, 
but  it  was  the  end  also.  Having  proceeded  with 
fluency  so  far,  the  inevitable  attack  of  stage-fright 
overtook  him.  He  glared  wildly  around  him  for 
half  a  minute,  and  then,  without  another  word, 
dropped  into  his  seat.  But  I  think  that  what  he  did 
say  was  sufficient,  and  at  all  events  his  audience 
were  flattered  and  delighted.  He  had  a  good  time 
in  Leeds,  and  enjoyed  himself  to  the  top  of  his  bent, 
making  notes  unceasingly  of  the  characteristic  peo- 
ple he  met,  some  of  whom  were  afterwards  destined 
to  figure  in  his  stories.  He  was,  however,  some- 
what unduly  impressed  by  the  proverbial  hospital- 
ity of  Yorkshire,  not  realizing  that  it  was,  after  all, 
inferior  to  his  own. 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

Monday  {March,  1881). 
MY  DEAR  REID, —  ...  I  think  I  have  fairly  recovered 
from  the  eating  and  drinking  that  went  on  in  Yorkshire; 

224 


PROPOSED  TRIP  TO  HIGHLANDS 

but  how  you  can  spend  year  after  year  there  without  be- 
coming a  Friar  Tuck  passes  comprehension.  I  lugged 
along  that  hamper  of  pottery  quite  safely  (is  it  Chanak,  or 
Jarnak,  or  Jamrach,  or  Anak?);  and  my  wife  is  very 
grateful  to  you  for  your  kindness.  I  don't  think  I  at  all 
made  the  proper  speeches  to  you  and  Mrs.  Reid  on  leaving ; 
but,  really,  when  I  think  on  all  the  trouble  I  gave  you, 
and  the  superhuman  way  in  which  you  looked  pleased 
at  having  to  breakfast  somewhere  in  the  regions  of  the 
day  before,  words  would  fail.  The  whole  visit  was  de- 
lightful. I  am  sending  you,  when  I  can  get  a  box,  one 
of  those  three  Hispano-Moresque  dishes  of  mine.  It  will 
make  a  variety  among  your  Tunisian  ware.  If  you  hang 
it  on  the  wall,  tilt  it  a  little  bit  forward,  so  that  it  may  catch 
the  light.  Please  give  my  very  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Reid 
and  the  children. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

Reform  Club,  Pall  Mall, 

March  26,  1881. 

MY  DEAR  REID,— All  right ;  I  shall  be  glad  to  dine  with 
you  on  April  8th.  Norman  Lockyer  and  I  start  on  a  little 
trip  to  the  Highlands  on  Monday  (why  not  ask  him,  too? 
This  is  cheeky,  but  you  will  thank  me),  and  are  sure  to 
be  back  by  that  date.  The  mysterious  Bret  Harte  wanted 
to  join  us  in  our  expedition,  and  possibly  may  (in  order 
to  grumble  all  the  time) ;  but,  in  any  case,  if  you  want 
to  write  to  him,  address  the  U.  S.  Considate,  Glasgow. 
But  you  need  not  pretend  any  longer  there  is  such  a  person 
as  Mudford.  "  Get  out,  Sairy!  Not  if  you  was  to  show 
me  Mrs.  Harris's  own  'andwriting  would  I  believe  it." 

Ah,  well,  you  don't  know  what  I  think  of  the  review 
you  have  just  sent.  Sometimes  it  seems  scarcely  worth 
while  to  try  to  do  one's  best  work;  and  then  again  when 
'5  225 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

you  find  here  and  there  some  one  who  seems  to  see  what 
you  have  been  aiming  at,  you  take  courage  again.  But 
it's  a  weariful  world,  and  all  the  ramjangle  of  it  will  sooner 
or  later  be  over. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

The  reference  to  Mr.  Mudford,  the  distinguished 
editor  of  the  Standard,  in  the  foregoing  letter,  was 
due  to  the  fact  that  on  several  occasions  I  had  en- 
deavored to  bring  about  a  meeting  between  my  two 
friends,  each  of  whom  had  a  sincere  admiration  for 
the  other.  But  some  evil  fate  always  interposed 
itself  at  the  last  moment,  and  Black  and  Mudford 
never  met.  The  dinner-party  to  which  reference  is 
made  above  was  just  as  unlucky  in  this  respect  as 
previous  engagements  had  been,  and  to  the  day  of 
his  death  Black  would  insist  upon  the  thesis  that 
Mudford  was  a  wholly  mythical  person.  As  for 
Bret  Harte,  although  he  accepted  the  invitation  he 
failed  to  turn  up  at  the  dinner-table,  but  in  his  place 
came  a  telegram,  in  which  I  wTas  invited  to  ask  Black 
and  Lockyer,  who  had  just  spent  a  few  days  with 
him  in  Scotland,  their  opinion  of  the  game  of  poker 
— evidence  that  they  had  not  spent  all  their  time  in 
Scotland  in  viewing  scenery. 

Towards  the  end  of  May,  Black  began  his  usual 
preparations  for  the  writing  of  a  new  novel.  This 
was  Shandon  Bells.  I  have  already  told  the  story 
of  his  friend  William  Barry,  who  died  not  long  after 
Black's  success  had  been  established.  There  were 
very  few  men  who  had  secured  a  more  lasting  hold 
upon  Black's  affections  than  Barry,  and  ever  since 

226 


"SHAN DON    BELLS" 

the  death  of  the  latter  his  old  comrade  had  been  think- 
ing of  making  him  the  subject  of  one  of  his  stories. 
Black  had  only  known  Barry,  however,  during  his 
life  in  London  as  a  journalist  and  literary  free-lance, 
and  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  acquaint  himself 
with  the  scenery  in  which  his  early  life  was  spent, 
in  order  to  provide  a  proper  setting  for  the  novel. 
Accordingly  he  went  to  the  south  of  Ireland  towards 
the  close  of  Ma}7,  1881,  and  visited  Cork  and  the 
neighborhood,  viewing  the  scenery  which  he  after- 
wards described  in  Shandon  Bells.  The  only  letter 
that  I  have  obtained  written  by  him  while  in  Ireland 
was  the  following,  addressed  to  an  American  friend 
with  whom  he  was  on  terms  of  intimacy : 

To  R.  R.  Bowker. 

Eccles  Hotel,  Glengariff, 

June  i,  1 88 1. 
MY  DEAR  BOWKER, — Thank  you  very  much  for  Uncle 
Remus;  it  has  lightened  many  weary  hours  of  railway 
travelling.  What  I  like  best  in  it  is  the  character  of  the 
old  nigger  himself,  and  his  relations  with  the  little  chap: 
most  excellent  both.  As  for  the  tales  themselves,  these 
legends  of  the  smaller  and  more  helpless  animals  over- 
coming the  stronger  animal  by  superior  astuteness  are 
common  to  the  early  mythologies  of  nearly  all  countries, 
and  I  have  long  had  the  notion  that  they  were  the  inven- 
tion of  a  conquered  race  "  taking  it  out  of  "  their  con- 
querors by  these  fanciful  stories.  However,  on  this  point 
I  would  advi.se  you  to  consult  the  gauger  (Bret  Harte), 
the  extent  and  accuracy  of  whose  erudition  you  must  have 
.seen  and  admired.  Thanks  to  the  absence  of  that  in- 
veterate comparison-monger,  I  have  enjoyed  this  south 
of  Ireland  trip  immensely.     I   like   the  people,   and   the 

227 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

scenery  is  lovely,  and  the  weather  superb.  So  what  better 
do  you  think  I  can  do  than  call  my  next  novel,  by  way  of 
gratitude,  Shandon  Bells?  How's  that,  umpire?  I  am 
thinking  of  describing  a  young  Irishman's  fight  through 
the  journalism  of  London,  with  a  few  things  intermixed. 
To-morrow  I  go  on  to  Killarney,  and  expect  to  be  home 
in  a  few  days.  I  hope  you  will  run  down  to  Brighton  for 
a  Sunday  before  we  leave  for  Scotland. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

His  work  in  Ireland  completed,  Black  and  his 
family  turned  north  for  their  annual  holiday.  On 
this  occasion  he  selected  Lerags,  on  Loch  Feochan, 
as  the  scene  of  their  autumn  rest.  He  deserved  a 
rest  this  year,  more  especially  because  he  had  com- 
pleted, in  addition  to  his  novel  of  Sunrise,  a  shorter 
story  called  That  Beautiful  Wretch.  The  name  had 
suggested  itself  to  him  because  it  was  one  which 
at  that  time  he  often  gave  to  his  elder  daughter 
Mabel.  At  Lerags  he  and  his  family  amused  them- 
selves with  a  small  steam-yacht,  dubbed  by  him 
alternately  the  Kettle  and  the  Devil.  During  the 
summer  he  entertained  many  of  his  friends  in  his 
Highland  quarters — Norman  Lockyer,  Colin  Plunter, 
E.  A.  Abbey,  and  the  Mortens  being  of  the  number. 

To  Miss  Morten. 

Lerags, 

July  15,  1881. 
We  are  well  pleased  with  this  place,  and  Mabs  has  al- 
ready got  back  the  color  ("  and  more  ")  that  she  had  before 
the  accident.     Maggie  and  Cluny  Macpherson  drove  out 
and  spent  yesterday  here.     The  weather  very  variable — 

228 


LERAGS 

generally  wet  during  the  night  and  morning,  and  blaz- 
ing sunlight  all  day  (this  is  a  better  arrangement  than  the 
reverse).  I  have  succeeded  in  bringing  back  an  old  sprain 
by  jumping  from  a  stone  wall  with  a  gun  in  my  hand. 
Luckily,  I  didn't  find  out  the  mischief  till  I  got  back,  for 
I  was  a  mile  and  a  half  from  home,  away  up  a  hill- side, 
and  it  was  getting  dusk.  The  blessed  thing  is  going  off, 
however,  and  I  expect  the  steam-j^acht  round  to-morrow. 

So  we'll  hop  o'er  the  runnels 
And  climb  up  the  gunwales 
And  spread  our  black  funnels 
Abaft  on  the  breeze! 

(Air:  "  Away,  away,  on  tons  of  coal.") 

Tell  your  mamma  I  have  received  her  letter.  Why 
does  she  trouble  herself  about  the  society  journals?  She 
needn't  buy  them  unless  she  pleases.  She  had  much 
better  send  her  money  to  the  poor-box.  (Address  Lerags, 
N.  B. ,  care  of  Yours  faithfully, 

W.  B.) 

I've  got  a  new  name  for  the  yacht — the  Coal  Scuttle. 

To  Dr.  Lauder  Brunton. 

Lerags,  Loch  Feochan, 

July  17th. 
MY  DEAR  BRUNTON, — It  is  exceedingly  kind  of  you 
to  send  me  your  new  book.  Just  fancy  how  opportune 
its  arrival  is :  this  being  a  thorough  -  going  wet  Sunday 
in  the  Highlands,  and  not  a  book  worth  reading  in  the 
house.  Moreover,  I  am  very  curious  to  see  how  you  will 
comport  yourself  in  the  domain  of  Mosaic  chronology. 
But  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts — if  that  is  the  right 
quotation.  I  have  just  been  asked  to  open  a  bazaar  in 
aid  of  the  Free  Church  in  Oban! 

This  is  a  very  pretty  place,  wet  or  no  wet.     It  is  beauti- 

229 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

fully  wooded,  with  waterfalls  and  glens  and  glimpses  of 
the  sea.  Is  there  any  chance  of  Mrs.  Brunton  and  you 
coming  through  this  way  this  year?  We  should  be  so 
pleased  to  see  you.  And  if  you  would  only  help  us  to 
vivisect  a  few  thousand  rabbits  (quite  as  interesting  as 
frogs)  by  the  aid  of  Eley's  cartridges,  you  would  earn 
the  gratitude  of  the  farmers  around.  The  place  is  four 
and  a  half  miles  from  Oban;  but  I  would  at  a  moment's 
notice  send  in  a  carriage  for  you,  or  come  round  in  our 
noble  steam-yacht  (of  fifteen  tons).  I  hope  you  are  well 
and  not  doing  too  much  work.  Kind  regards  to  Mrs. 
Brunton  from  both  of  us. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

Another  letter,  though  of  slightly  different  date, 
to  Sir  Lauder  Brunton  may  be  inserted  here  because 
of  its  bearing  upon  a  subject  touched  upon  in  the 
foregoing  note.  It  will  be  seen  from  it  that  Black 
had  no  sympathy  with  the  extreme  anti-vivisection 
school : 

To  Dr.  Lauder  Brunton. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

November  iSth. 
MY  DEAR  BRUNTON,— You  will  see  that  the  Daily 
Neivs  has  already  referred  to  the  Ferrier  case — I  think 
fairly  and  temperately.  The  anti-vivisectionists  are  rais- 
ing a  strong  feeling  against  themselves  by  their  prepos- 
terous violence.  To  me  the  thing  seems  very  absurd ;  for 
I  know  there  is  more  cruelty  enacted  in  a  single  night  on 
an  estate  where  rabbits  are  snared  than  vivisection  could 
accomplish  in  a  century.  What  about  coursing  hares, 
which  doesn't  even  pretend  to  be  a  form  of  obtaining  food  ? 
I  suppose  you  know  that  after  a  battue  of  pheasants  the 

230 


PAPER    FOR    "HARPER'S    MAGAZINE 


>  t 


keepers  go  out  the  next  day  to  pick  up  the  wounded  birds : 
these  must  have  had  a  line  night  of  it.  .  .  .  We  have  a 
variety  of  visitors.  Toole  called  this  afternoon,  and  Herbert 
Spencer  is  coming  in  to-night  to  play  billiards ;  so  you 
could  suit  yourself. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

Even  at  Lerags  he  was  not  allowed  entire  rest. 
The  demand  for  his  wrork  was  at  this  time  greater 
than  it  had  ever  been  before,  and  it  was  particularly 
great  in  the  United  States.  Harper  &  Brothers  were 
anxious  to  secure  original  contributions  from  his 
pen  for  their  magazine,  and  he  was  constrained 
by  their  insistence  to  break  through  his  excellent 
rule  and  devote  some,  even  of  his  holiday  hours,  to 
work.  The  following  letter  refers  to  a  proposal 
that  he  should  write  a  paper  on  the  West  Highland 
people  for  Harper's  Magazine: 

To  R.  R.  Bowker. 

Lerags, 

August  9,  1881. 

My  DEAR  BOWKER, — When  I  first  read  your  note  my 

very  gorge  rose  at  the  notion  of  doing  any  writing  during 

my  holidays — a  trick  I  haven't  tried  for  more  than  a  dozen 

years  ;  but  then  the  opportunity  of  saying  something  about 

my  beloved  Highland  folk  was  too  tempting  ;  and  so  I  have 

written  to  Abbey.     But  I  can't  bind  myself  to  any  number 

of  pages,  so  you  must  cut  down  the  price  accordingly. 

Perhaps  I  shall  get  up  the  required  number  if  I  take  the 

freer  form  of  making  the  article  a  letter  addressed  to  you. 

I  could  then  introduce  some  personal  reminiscences  that 

would  look  out  of  place  in  a  formal  article.     I'll  even  forgive 

231 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

you  (if  possible)  for  saddling  me  with  this  business  when  I 
have  all  a  gamekeeper's  cares  on  my  shoulders.  Do  you 
know  that  it  only  wants  three  days  to  the  1 2th? 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

January  10,  1882. 
MY  DEAR  CRERAR,— A  thousand  thanks;  the  birds 
were  in  most  excellent  condition,  and  for  the  big  one  the 
children  were  allowed  to  wait  up  for  a  late  dinner,  which 
was  a  great  treat  for  them.  Don't  imagine  that  these 
evidences  of  your  kindness  are  swallowed  and  leave  no 
trace  behind;  the  plumage  of  the  wild  turkeys  we  have 
carefully  preserved,  and  a  more  beautiful  adornment  of 
the  children's  dresses  it  is  impossible  to  imagine.  We 
all  send  you  heartiest  New  Year  greetings,  and  hope  you 
will  soon  get  rid  of  the  weakness  naturally  following  the 
fever.  Tell  Mr.  Sutherland  he  is  a  bad  man.  What  has 
become  of  his  notion  of  taking  a  shooting  in  the  Highlands? 
He  ought  to  do  that  at  once;  bring  you  over  here  for  a 
three  months'  recuperative  holiday,  and  ask  me  for  the 
12th.  Just  see  whether  I  would  refuse!  I  went  down 
to  Lord  Rosebery's  country  house  at  Epsom  for  a  day  or 
so  at  Easter  last,  and  found  that  among  other  things  Amer- 
ican he  had  a  lively  recollection  of  the  aviary.  You  talk 
about  your  weather.  Our  weather  here  has  gone  off  its 
head.  We  have  had  nothing  but  gales  and  summer  days 
mixed  up  together  all  through  the  winter ;  no  snow  as  yet. 
Again  best  wishes  for  the  New  Year. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

Returning  to  Brighton  in  the  autumn,  he  had 
settled  down  to  his  winter's  work,  the  writing  of 

232 


DEDICATION     TO     BARRY 

Shandon  Bells.  I  think  that  this  was  as  much  a 
labor  of  love  on  Black's  part  as  any  task  that  he 
ever  undertook.  The  memory  of  the  brilliant  young 
Irishman  who  had  been  his  friend  and  companion 
during  some  of  the  most  eventful  years  of  his  life 
was  already  fading.  It  was  only  the  faithful  few 
who  still  held  him  in  remembrance,  and  looked  back 
with  mingled  pleasure  and  pain  to  the  days  when 
their  cheery  companion  was  still  with  them.  I 
need  not  say  that  Black  was  one  of  the  faithful.  For 
many  a  year  there  hung  above  his  writing-table  in 
his  work-room  at  Paston  House  a  large  photograph 
of  Barry.  It  hung  there  while  Shandon  Bells  was 
being  written;  and  in  that  story  Black  drew  the 
picture — idealized,  of  course,  but  still  in  its  essence 
true — of  the  man  he  had  known  and  loved;  and, 
talking  of  the  book  afterwards,  he  always  spoke  as 
though  Willie  Fitzgerald,  the  hero,  and  Barry  were 
identical.  It  was  the  monument  of  his  friend  that 
he  thus  raised  with  infinite  care  and  delicacy,  and 
with  the  keenest  desire  that  the  world  should  see 
the  dead  man  as  he  had  seen  him,  with  the  partial 
eyes  of  affection.  When  the  book  was  finished,  he 
prefaced  it  with  the  following  dedication :  "To  the 
memory  of  the  author  of  Moorland  and  Stream, 
Sporting  Sketches,  and  Holiday  Rambles,  and  other 
writings ;  and  to  the  memory  of  a  long  and  intimate 
friendship ;  this  book,  which  has  been  largely  colored 
by  both,  is  affectionately,  but  now  aimlessly,  dedi- 
cated." Black,  as  I  have  already  said,  seldom 
dedicated  a  volume  of  his,  after  those  first  successful 
novels,  which  he  had  laid  at  the  feet  of  his  wife. 

233 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

This  dedication,  penned  years  after  Barry's  death, 
furnishes  the  strongest  evidence  of  the  place  which 
his  old  friend  had  secured  in  his  affections.  To 
those  who  knew  both  men  it  is  a  pleasure  now  to 
think  that  they  were  knit  together  with  a  love  passing 
that  of  brothers. 

Shandon  Bells  was  published  in  the  first  place  in 
Harper's  Magazine,  and  it  achieved  a  great  and 
immediate  success.  If  it  was  not  distinguished  by 
the  virile  force  of  Sunrise — a  force  that  was  startling 
even  to  Black's  admirers — it  had  many  delightful 
qualities,  akin  to  those  which  had  captivated  the 
reading  public  in  his  most  popular  novels.  The 
beautiful  scenery  of  the  south  of  Ireland  was  de- 
scribed by  the  master-hand  that  had  first  revealed 
the  glories  of  the  western  Highlands  to  the  world, 
while  over  the  whole  story  there  broods  an  atmos- 
phere of  sympathetic  tenderness  which  is  in  itself 
proof  of  the  fact  that  in  writing  it  Black  wrote  from 
his  heart.  He  had  often  before  selected  his  friends 
as  models  for  the  portraits  that  he  drew,  but  he  al- 
ways put  more  of  himself  into  his  characters  than 
of  anybody  else.  In  Shandon  Bells  he  sought  to 
take  a  different  line.  The  work  was  to  him,  if  one 
can  compare  things  essentially  so  different,  what 
In  Memoriam  was  to  Tennyson — no  dramatic  per- 
formance, but  the  memorial  of  a  lost  friend. 

To  R.  R.  Bowker. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

March  16,  1882. 
My    DEAR    BOWKER,— Will   you    please    tell    Messrs. 
Harper  that  their  plans  and  arrangements  are  in  every 

234 


PRESIDENT     GARFIELD'S     MESSAGE 

way  satisfactory,  except  as  regards  the  iniquitous  limita- 
tion of  the  publishing  of  the  book  to  within  a  fortnight  of 
the  serial  end.  I  would  respectfully  beg  for  an  extension 
of  that  period.  In  any  case  the  English  book  form  might 
be  allowed  to  appear  a  week  before  the  American  book 
form,  as  by  no  possible  means  (except  angels'  wings) 
could  a  copy  be  transferred  to  the  States  in  time  to  forestall. 
Did  I  show  you  the  curious  coincidence  mentioned  in  the 
enclosed  letter?  It  might  interest  some  of  your  American 
readers  if  you  made  a  note  of  it  in  your  Editor's  Drawer. 
Garfield  must  have  said  that  very  shortly  before  his  as- 
sassination. By -the -way,  Robinson  tells  me  that  there 
is  something  about  Garfield  and  these  books  of  mine  in 
Dr.  Russell's  Hespereothen.  Now,  if  Messrs.  Sampson 
Low  &  Company,  of  181  Fleet  Street,  were  nice  people, 
they  would  send  me  a  copy  of  that  book.  Can  I  have  two 
more  proofs  of  Part  I.  ?  Please,  sir,  it  isn't  me ;  it's  the 
German  translator  who  is  at  it  this  time. 


(Enclosure) 

Andrew  Carnegie  to  William  Black. 

I  had  a  message  for  you  from  President  Garfield.  I 
dined  with  him  a  week  or  so  before  sailing,  and  the  con- 
versation turning  upon  my  proposed  coaching  -  trip,  he 
said :  "  Why,  that's  the  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton  over  again, 
upon  a  grand  scale.  Has  Black  ever  written  anything 
so  fine?  I  don't  think  he  has.  That  was  charming." 
He  continued:  "  By-the-way,  I'm  provoked  with  him  just 
now.  A  man  has  no  right  to  end  a  novel  so  miserably  as 
Macleod  of  Dare  ends.  Human  life  has  tragedies  enough — 
fiction  should  give  us  the  bright  side."  I  told  him  I  ex- 
pected to  see  you  and  would  tell  you  this,  and  he  laughed, 
and  said,  "  Do  so."     When  we  heard  of  his  fate  at  Chats- 

235 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

worth,  the  words  came  back  to  me,  and  I  have  often  thought 
of  his  look  as  he  spoke  them. 

The  writing  of   Shandon  Bells  finished,  Black, 
amid  the  intervals  of  his  customary  life  at  Brighton, 
prepared  himself  for  a  longer  journey  than  those 
which  he  usually  took.     For  a  long  time  some  of 
his  friends  who  knew  the  beauties  of  the  South,  and 
loved  them,  had  been  anxious  that  he  should  visit 
the  Mediterranean  and  southeastern  Europe,  assur- 
ing him  that  he  would  find  there  material  not  less 
worthy  of  his  powTers  as  a  descriptive  writer  than 
that  which  he  had  made  his  own  in  the  Highlands. 
To  this  view  Black  always  demurred.      "Wretched 
chromo-lithographic    sort   of   stuff,"   was   the   con- 
temptuous phrase  he  was  wont  to  use  when  any  one 
spoke  to  him  of  a  sunset  in  the  Straits  of  Sicily  or 
the  afterglow  in  Egypt,  or  the  weird  loveliness  of 
the  Greek  islands.     This  was  before  he  had  visited 
the  East.     In  after -years  he  went  often,  and  un- 
doubtedly modified  his  opinion,  but  to  the  last  he 
maintained  his  preference  for  the  beauty  of  Scotch 
scenery,  and  for  the  atmospheric  effects  in  which 
he  insisted  that  the  "land  of  the  mountain  and  the 
flood"  was  infinitely  richer  than  the  arid  mountain 
ranges  of  the  East.     In   1882  his  friend  Norman 
Lockyer  had  undertaken  the  leadership  of  an  ex- 
pedition to  Egypt  to  observe  the  eclipse  of  that  year. 
He  invited  Black  to  accompany  him,  and  the  latter 
eagerly  accepted  the  opportunity  of  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  scenes  which  were  as  yet  strange  to 

him. 

236 


VISIT    TO     EGYPT 

To  Mrs.  Kroeker. 

Reform  Club, 

March  29,  1882. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  KROEKER,— Pray  forgive  me  for  not 

having  answered  your  letter  sooner.     I  have  been  up  to 

the  eyes  in  worry,  getting  things  forwarded  along  for  our 

trip  to  Egypt  (I  am  going  with  the  Eclipse  expedition). 

You  guessed  rightly   about  this  Shandon  Bells;   I  had 

already  assigned  away  the  right  of  German  translation; 

otherwise  I  should  have  been  very  glad  if could  have 

undertaken  it.     It  is  really  wicked  of  you  to  talk  about 

Chiselhurst  when  I  am  going  up  the  Nile  just  at  the  time 

that  the  poisonous  desert  winds  begin  to  blow.     But  if  I 

come  back,  which  is  hardly  probable,  and  if  in  the  mean 

time  you  and  Mr.  Kroeker  are  not  in  prison  for  dynamite 

plots,  my  wife  and  I  may  make  a  raid  on  you. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Brighton, 

April  3,  1882. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Kroeker, — I  would  gladly  run  over 
to  see  Mr.  Kroeker  and  yourself  before  I  go,  but  I  have 
to  go  up  to  Scotland  on  Wednesday,  and  shall  just  be  back 
in  time  for  the  Kaiser -i-Hind  on  the  19th.  I  hope  I  shall 
not  have  to  express  myself  as  disappointed  with  the  Pyra- 
mids. Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

P.S. — The  spelling  of  oasis  is  quite  simple.  The  sin- 
gular is  "oas-is"  and  the  plural,  of  course,  is  "oas-are." 

I  do  not  think  that  the  Egyptian  expedition  was 
an  unqualified  success.  At  all  events,  when  Black 
returned  from  it,  he  had  not  modified  his  view's  about 
the  chromo  -  lithographic  nature  of  the  scenery  in 
the  East.     The   lights  and  shades  were  too  harsh, 

237 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

and  too  strongly  denned,  he  declared,  and  he  could 
find  a  hundred  Highland  glens,  all  unknown  to 
fame,  that  satisfied  his  sense  of  beauty  infinitely 
more  than  the  ruins  and  plains  of  Egypt,  with  the 
traditional  splendor  of  the  afterglow  thrown  in. 
His  companions  on  the  journey  were  struck  by  the 
fact  that  he  showed  an  apparent  indifference  to  the 
recognized  "  sights  "  which  it  is  the  duty  of  every 
tourist  to  visit  and  admire.  He  was  happiest,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  in  rambling  about  the  bazaars,  in- 
specting the  quaint  and  beautiful  objects  that  are  to 
be  had  there  at  a  price.  His  taste  for  bric-a-brac 
hunting  had  grown  upon  him  with  the  years,  and 
he  was  specially  attracted  by  the  beautiful  old  em- 
broideries which  form  one  of  the  staple  articles  of 
commerce  in  the  Egyptian  bazaars.  He  bought 
freely,  and  came  home  laden  with  his  spoils;  but 
on  the  whole,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  not  specially 
satisfied  with  his  first  peep  at  the  Far  East.  At 
the  end  of  July  he  was  again  in  Scotland,  on  this 
occasion  choosing  Stronelairg  as  the  scene  of  his  holi- 
day. It  was  a  most  secluded  spot,  thirty-three  miles 
from  Inverness,  and  fifteen  miles  from  the  nearest  land- 
ing-stage at  Foyers,  on  the  Caledonian  Canal.  Here 
he  spent  happy  weeks,  shooting,  fishing,  and  meditat- 
ing upon  his  next  story,  Yolande,  part  of  the  scenery 
of  which  was  taken  from  his  lonely  holiday  retreat. 

To  Norman  Lockyer. 

Stronelairg,  N.  B., 

September  13,  1 882. 
MY  DEAR  LOCKYER,— I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you 
have  had  some  decent  shooting.     It  appears  as  though 

238 


DEER-STALKING 

the  smaller  moors  had  escaped  scot-free,  and  only  the  bigger 
ones  been  nailed.  There  was  very  indifferent  shooting 
here  last  year,  and  only  seven  hundred  brace  were  killed ; 
if  fourteen  hundred  brace  had  been  killed  it  would  have 
been  better  for  the  place.  All  around  here  the  birds  were 
in  enormous  quantities  in  the  spring ;  in  a  week  the  mis- 
chief was  done,  and  the  place  is  a  wilderness,  for  our  neigh- 
bors, Lord  Lovat  and  Cunningham,  of  Foyers,  have  left 
their  lodges  vacant.  However,  all  our  interest  is  centred 
now  upon  deer  (we  are  in  the  middle  of  three  forests).  They 
are  already  on  the  move,  and  I  am  liable  to  be  summoned 
at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night.  You  have  no  idea  how 
nice  it  is  to  start  at  3.30  A.M.  and  make  your  way  by  your- 
self to  your  station  in  the  hills  in  pouring  rain ;  and  then 
to  sit  perched  up  on  the  top  of  a  precipice  for  a  couple  of 
hours.  But  there  has  not  been  enough  rain  really;  and 
the  deer  have  not  come  about  the  woods  yet  in  any  num- 
bers— the  beaters  put  out  one  stag  and  four  hinds  the  other 
day,  just  behind  the  house,  but  the  beasts  doubled  back 
— though  now  the  wet  has  begun,  and  we  are  all  expecta- 
tion. I  have  only  seen  one  roe-buck — which  I  shot — and 
rather  a  good  one ;  but  it  is  the  muckle  hart  of  Ben  More 
that  we  are  after.  If  you  have  any  loch-fishing  near  you, 
send  for  some  flies  to  Watson,  Inglis  Street,  Inverness ; 
he  is  an  excellent  maker.  I  have  taken  over  three  hundred 
trout  out  of  the  loch  here — none  small,  none  big,  the  biggest 
just  over  two  pounds ;  but  a  welcome  addition  to  the  larder. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 
To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

November  14,  1882. 
MY  DEAR  REID, — We  are  just  getting  settled  down  now, 
after  getting  back  from  Scotland ;  and  I  am  in  harness 
again,  after  the  long  holiday  of  the  Egyptian  and  High- 

239 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

land  expeditions.  The  former  middling — rather  chromo- 
lithographic  kind  of  stuff,  the  latter  a  failure,  for  the  grouse 
disease  had  ravaged  the  moor ;  but  I  dare  say  I  shall  man- 
age to  pound  something  out  of  both.  .  .  .  We  shall  be 
delighted  to  see  you  in  December.  Let  me  know  in  good 
time  when  you  are  likely  to  be  up. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

P.S. — I  am  glad  you  like  Shandon  Bells.  I  can't  do 
any  better  than  that.  But  it  won't  suit  the  public;  it  is 
too  introspective  and  lacking  in  incident.  I  hear  there 
will  be  some  sketches  of  Paston  House  in  next  month's 
Harper. 

Writing  to  another  friend,  December  18,  1882,  he 
says:  "We  had  a  woful  experience  in  Scotland; 
the  grouse  disease  came  along  and  swept  the  moor 
clean,  as  you  may  see  in  some  scurrilous  verses  in 
the  Christmas  number  of  Society,  a  copy  of  which 
somebody  has  just  sent  me.  However,  we  had  the 
novel  experience  of  living  up  among  mountains  in 
an  absolute  wilderness,  thirty -three  miles  from  a 
towTn." 

As  the  reader  has  already  learned,  it  was  Black's 
habit  to  fix  upon  some  special  place  for  his  autumn 
holiday  that  he  could  introduce  into  the  story  he 
was  writing.  Year  by  year  it  is  possible  to  trace 
the  actual  scenes  of  his  novels  by  following  him 
to  his  different  holiday  resorts.  He  went  straight 
to  nature  for  his  colors  and  for  the  fair  landscapes 
that  he  drew.  And  he  never  wasted  an  impres- 
sion that  he  had  received  in  any  of  his  wanderings. 
Most  of  these  impressions  went  direct  into  the  little 

240 


BLACK'S    note-books 

note-books  which  he  always  carried  with  him,  and 
to  which  he  was  accustomed  to  refer  when  he  was 
hard  at  work  at  his  desk  at  Brighton.  But  any- 
thing that  did  not  go  at  once  into  the  note-book  was 
stored  away  in  his  retentive  memory  to  be  turned 
to  account  when  needed.  If  a  friend  told  him  of 
some  curious  incident  that  had  come  within  his 
knowledge,  or  some  quaint  remark  that  he  had 
heard,  the  chances  were  that  the  incident  or  the  re- 
mark would  be  found  figuring  in  one  of  his  stories. 
He  wasted  nothing  that  he  thought  could  be  of  ser- 
vice to  him  in  his  work;  and  he  was  specially  fond 
of  gathering  facts.  The  edifice  he  reared  was  of 
his  own  imagining;  but  the  bricks  of  which  it  was 
built  were  in  his  eyes  none  the  worse  for  being  real, 
indisputable  facts.  One  striking  feature  of  his 
character  was  his  resolute  determination  not  to 
use  up  the  impressions  he  had  formed,  or  the  good 
things  that  he  had  seen,  in  correspondence.  His 
letters,  as  the  reader  must  long  ago  have  perceived, 
are  very  brief  and  prosaic  in  form.  They  do  not 
furnish  any  real  indication  of  his  powers  as  a  writer. 
If,  for  example,  one  wishes  to  know  something  of 
the  impressions  made  upon  him  during  his  visit  to 
Egypt  it  is  not  to  his  correspondence  that  one  must 
go,  but  to  the  pages  of  Yolande. 

That  story,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  illustrates  well 
the  side  of  his  character  to  which  I  am  drawing  at- 
tention. In  1882  he  went  first  to  Egypt  with  Sir 
Norman  Lockyer,  and  afterwards  to  Stronelairg 
in  Scotland.  In  Yolande,  which  he  wrote  in  the 
autumn  of  the  same  3Tear,  he  takes  his  heroine  first 
16  241 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

to  Egypt  and  the  Nile  and  afterwards  to  that  lonely 
place  in  the  Highlands  to  which  he  makes  brief 
reference  in  the  notes  I  have  last  quoted.  It  will 
be  of  interest  to  see  how  his  remark  about  "  the  novel 
experience  of  living  up  among  the  mountains  in 
an  absolute  wilderness,  thirty-three  miles  from  a 
town/'  is  expanded  in  the  story.  Here  is  the  true 
picture  of  Stronelairg  as  it  is  drawn  for  us  in  the 
pages  of  Yolande: 

Far  up  in  the  wild  and  lonely  hills  that  form  the  back- 
bone, as  it  were,  of  eastern  Inverness-shire,  in  the  desert 
solitudes  where  the  Findhorn  and  the  Foyers  first  begin 
to  draw  their  waters  from  a  thousand  mystic  named  or 
nameless  rills,  stands  the  lodge  of  Allt-nam-ba.  The  plain, 
little,  double  -  gabled  building,  with  its  dependencies  of 
kennels,  stables,  coach-house,  and  keeper's  bothy,  occupies 
a  promontory  formed  by  the  confluence  of  two  brawling 
streams,  and  faces  a  long,  wide,  beautiful  valley,  which 
terminates  in  the  winding  waters  of  a  loch.  It  is  the  onl3r 
sign  of  habitation  in  the  strangely  silent  district,  and  it  is 
the  last.  The  rough  hill- road  leading  to  it  terminates 
there.  From  that  small  plateau,  divergent  corries — softly 
wooded  most  of  them  are,  with  waterfalls  half  hidden  by 
birch  and  rowan  trees — stretch  up  still  farther  into  a  sterile 
wilderness  of  moor  and  lochan  and  bare  mountain -top, 
the  haunt  of  the  ptarmigan,  the  red  deer,  and  the  eagle ; 
and  the  only  sound  to  be  heard  in  these  voiceless  altitudes 
is  the  monotonous  murmur  of  the  various  burns — the 
White  Winding  Water,  the  Dun  Water,  the  Stream  of  the 
Red  Lochan,  the  Stream  of  the  Fairies,  the  Stream  of  the 
Corrie  of  the  Horses,  as  they  are  called  in  the  Gaelic.  At 
the  door  of  this  solitary  little  lodge,  on  a  morning  towards 
the  end  of  July,   Yolande   Winterbourne  was  standing 

242 


STRONELAIRG 

engaged  in  buttoning  on  her  driving-gloves,  but  occasion- 
ally glancing  out  at  the  bewildering,  changeful,  flashing, 
and  gleaming  day  around  her.  For,  indeed,  since  she 
had  come  to  live  at  Allt-nam-ba  she  had  acquired  the  con- 
viction that  the  place  seemed  very  close  up  to  the  sky, 
and  that  this  broad  valley,  walled  in  by  those  great  and 
silent  hills,  formed  a  sort  of  caldron,  in  which  the  elements 
were  in  the  habit  of  mixing  up  weather  for  transference 
to  the  wide  world  beyond.  At  this  very  moment,  for  ex- 
ample, a  continual  phantasmagoria  of  cloud  effects  was 
passing  before  her  eyes.  Far  mountain-tops  grew  blacker 
and  blacker  in  shadow ;  then  the  gray  mist  of  the  rain  stole 
slowly  across  and  hid  them  from  view ;  then  they  reappeared 
again,  and  a  sudden  shaft  of  sunlight  would  strike  on  the 
yellow-green  slopes  and  on  the  bowlders  of  wet  and  glitter- 
ing granite.  But  she  had  this  one  consolation — that  the 
prospect  in  front  of  the  lodge  was  much  more  reassuring 
than  that  behind.  Behind — over  the  mountainous  ranges  of 
the  moor — the  clouds  were  banking  up  in  a  heavy  and  thun- 
derous purple ;  and  in  the  ominous  silence  the  streams 
coming  down  from  the  corries  sounded  loud ;  whereas, 
away  before,  the  valley  that  led  down  to  the  haunts  of 
men  was  for  the  most  part  flooded  with  brilliant  sunlight, 
and  the  wind-swept  loch  was  of  the  darkest  and  keenest 
blue.  Altogether  there  was  more  life  and  motion  here — 
more  color  and  brilliancy  and  change — than  in  the  pale 
and  placid  Egyptian  landscape  she  had  grown  accustomed 
to. 

There  is  no  need  to  speak  of  the  beauty  of  this 
description  or  of  its  manifest  fidelity  to  truth.  It 
was  Black  himself  who  stood  at  the  door  of  the  little 
Highland  lodge  that  day  and  noted  everything — 
the  hills,  the  streams,  the  sky,  the  clouds — with 
his  keen  eye,  and  who  compared  the  scene  writh  the 

243 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

Egyptian  landscapes  upon  which  he  had  been  look- 
ing a  few  weeks  before.  It  was  he  who  sketched  the 
scene  for  us  in  words  that  at  once  impress  it  upon 
the  reader's  mind.  But  to  his  friends,  in  writing 
from  Stronelairg,  he  says  nothing  of  all  this — noth- 
ing beyond  the  curt  remark  that  it  is  absolutely 
lonely,  and  thirty-three  miles  from  the  nearest  rail- 
way station.  I  might  have  drawn  similar  pictures 
of  his  surroundings  on  his  autumn  holidays  from 
many  others  of  his  stories,  but  one  instance  will,  I 
think,  suffice,  to  bring  home  to  the  reader  the  care 
with  which  he  introduced  his  actual  surroundings 
into  any  story  that  he  was  writing.  His  real  work- 
shop was  not  the  little  room  at  Brighton,  but  the 
open  air,  amid  the  scenery  in  which  he  was  most  at 
home. 

To  Norman  Lockyer. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

June  17,  1883. 
MY  DEAR  LOCKYER,— I  got  the  books  all  right,  and 
hope  to  return  them  this  week.  Here  are  some  facts  for 
you  which  may  ward  off  rash  conclusions.  The  public 
records  in  Shakespeare's  time  began  the  year  March  25th ; 
S.  bought  his  Blackfriar's  house  in  1612,  after  it  is  sup- 
posed he  had  retired  to  Stratford ;  and  Judith  had  to  sign 
her  mark,  not  her  name,  to  an  ordinary  legal  conveyance. 
Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  of  a  curious  phenomenon 
I  had  seen  up  at  Stronelairg?  Very  oddly,  the  other  night 
at  dinner  Professor  Grainger  Stewart  began  and  described 
this  very  thing,  saying  he  had  never  heard  of  any  one  but 
himself  having  seen  it.  There  is  a  description  of  it  at 
page  65,  volume  three,  Yolande,  and  if  you  were  to  get  a 
copy  of  the  book  from  Macmillan  and  reprint  a  short  pas- 

244 


A    STRANGE    PHENOMENON 

sage  in  Nature,  that  would  fetch  out  some  corroborative 
testimony  most  likely,  perhaps  even  an  explanation. 
Grainger  Stewart  gave  up  the  conundrum. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

The  passage  in  Yolande  to  which  Black  refers 
is  as  follows.  I  quote  it  as  further  evidence  of  the 
care  with  which  he  based  all  his  descriptions  of 
natural  phenomena  upon  his  own  personal  experi- 
ences: "The  only  extraordinary  thing  that  I  have 
seen  or  met  with  since  you  left  me  1  ran  across  the 
other  night  on  coming  home  from  the  shooting. 
We  had  been  to  the  Far  Tops,  after  ptarmigan  and 
white  hares,  and  got  belated.  Long  before  wre 
reached  home  complete  darkness  overtook  us.  .  .  . 
I  was  trying  to  make  out  John  Shortland's  legs  in 
front  of  me  when  I  saw  on  the  ground  two  or  three 
small  points  of  white  fire.  I  thought  it  strange 
for  glowworms  to  be  so  high  above  the  level  of  the 
sea;  and  I  called  the  others  back  to  examine  these 
things.  But  now  I  found,  as  they  were  all  standing 
in  the  dark  talking,  that  wherever  you  lifted  your 
foot  from  the  wet  black  peat,  immediately  afterwards 
a  large  number  of  these  pale  points  of  clear  fire  ap- 
peared, burning  for  about  a  minute  and  then  grad- 
ually disappearing.  Some  were  larger  and  clearer 
than  others,  just  as  you  remember  on  a  phospho- 
rescent night  at  sea  there  are  individual  big  stars 
separate  from  the  general  rush  of  white  as  the  steamer 
goes  on.  We  tried  to  lift  some  of  the  points  of  light, 
but  could  not  manage  it;  so  I  take  it  they  were  not 
glowworms,  or  any  other   living  creatures,  but  an 

245 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

emanation  of  gas  from  the  peaty  soil;  only  that, 
unlike  the  will-o'-the-wisp,  they  were  quite  station- 
ary, and  burned  with  a  clear  white  or  blue-white 
flame,  the  size  of  most  of  them  not  bigger  than  the 
head  of  a  common  pin,  and  sometimes  about  fifteen 
or  twenty  of  them  appearing  where  one  foot  had 
been  pressed  into  the  soft  soil." 

I  am  indebted  to  a  well-known  literary  man,  liv- 
ing in  Derbyshire,  Mr.  Bradbury,  for  some  remi- 
niscences of  Black  about  this  period  in  his  life:  "I 
first  became  acquainted  with  William  Black  at  Oban, 
in  the  summer  of  1880,  although  through  his  en- 
chanting novels  I  had  long  been  his  admirer,  and 
subsequently  saw  him  in  his  home  at  Brighton. 
Although  an  unerring  shot  and  an  expert  angler, 
he  was  a  humanitarian,  and  a  warm  lover  of  ani- 
mated nature.  He  reprimanded  in  kindly  tones 
some  donkey-drivers  at  Brighton  when  I  was  walking 
with  him,  because  of  their  cruelty  to  their  docile  ani- 
mals. Then  he  said,  'What  a  pity  it  is  that  these 
poor  brutes  have  no  conception  of  suicide.'  It  was 
my  privilege  to  meet  Black  in  the  Highlands  during 
several  successive  summers,  sometimes  at  Ardcon- 
nel,  near  Oban,  sometimes  at  the  Alexandra  Hotel, 
favored  alike  by  tourist  and  landscape-painters, 
and  sometimes  at  his  house  on  the  shores  of  Loch 
Feochan,  where  we  caught  salmon  and  shot  grouse 
and  such  small  deer  as  rabbits.  Black  used  to 
sail  from  Loch  Feochan  to  Oban  in  a  yawl,  a  smaller 
boat  than  the  Ringdove,  which  braves  the  waves 
so  buoyantly  in  White  Wings  under  the  name  of  the 

White  Dove. 

246 


MR.     BRADBURY'S    REMINISCENCES 

"  Every  fisherman  and  sailor  in  the  land  of  Lome 
was  attached  to  William  Black,  and  many  would 
have  died  for  him.  Mere  money  cannot  purchase 
the  cheerful  loyalty  they  unfailingly  paid  to  him. 
As  a  yachtsman  he  was  intimate  with  every  cape 
and  creek,  every  bay  and  buoy,  every  headland 
and  haven,  from  the  Firth  of  Clyde  to  Thurso.  To 
some  yachtsmen  every  sea-bird  is  a  gull,  but  Black 
could  identify  every  winged  thing  on  the  water. 
There  are  not  a  few  good  stories  current  in  and  about 
Oban  regarding  Black.  He  loved  children  as  much 
as  he  loved  beautiful  things  of  the  natural  world. 
I  have  seen  him,  when  passing  through  the  Crinan 
Canal,  select  from  the  crowds  of  children  who  follow 
the  tourists,  under  pretence  of  selling  nuts  and  milk, 
the  most  poorly  clad  and  least  beautiful  in  order  to 
distribute  money  among  them,  leaving  the  comely 
and  pretty  to  the  attention  they  were  certain  to  re- 
ceive from  his  fellow-travellers.  Once,  at  Iona,  I 
saw  him  carrying  a  box  of  books  to  a  crofter's  cottage, 
a  gift  for  one  or  two  struggling  lads  on  the  isolated 
island  who  were  striving  to  add  to  their  store  of 
knowledge  even  amid  the  hard  surroundings  of  their 
daily  life.  It  was  on  a  trip  by  one  of  Mr.  McBrayne's 
boats  from  Oban  to  Staffa  and  Iona — Mr.  McBrayne, 
by-the-way,  should  certainly  call  one  of  his  steam- 
ers the  William  Black  in  recognition  of  all  that 
Black  has  done  for  the  western  Highlands  —  that 
I  and  a  companion,  the  late  much -beloved  John 
Cumming  Bates,  the  proprietor  and  editor  of  the 
Buxton  Advertiser,  saw  much  of  Black's  innate 
modesty  of  character.     The  steamer  was  the  Chev- 

247 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

alter.  Black,  who  was  dressed  in  a  blue  yachting 
suit,  was  mistaken  by  one  of  the  passengers,  a  clergy- 
man, for  an  official  of  the  ship,  and  asked  to  name 
the  various  islands  and  headlands  in  view.  This 
he  did  with  great  readiness.  'Thank  you,  purser, 
thank  you  very  much/  said  the  clergyman,  when 
Black  had  finished  his  enumeration.  'I  have  read 
all  about  these  places  in  Mr.  William  Black's  novels. 
You  should  really  find  time  to  read  them ;  you  real- 
ly should,  I  am  sure.'  Black  modestly  replied  that 
he  would  certainly  obtain  and  read  the  works  in 
question.  At  Iona  we  landed  and  climbed  the  steep 
hill  to  St.  Oran.  Within  and  without  the  chapel 
are  tombs  of  kings  and  chieftains  of  untold  antiquity. 
'Here,'  said  the  guide,  'is  the  tomb  of  Macleod  of 
Macleod.'  'Oh!  I'm  so  disappointed,'  ejaculated  a 
vivacious  American  lady  with  Black's  well-known 
novel  in  her  hand ;  '  I  would  not  have  come  if  I  had 
known.  I  thought  we  were  going  to  see  the  grave 
of  Macleod  of  Dare.' 

"Mr.  Bret  Harte,  when  he  was  American  Con- 
sul at  Glasgow,  often  visited  Black  at  Oban.  On 
one  occasion  a  German  band  had  taken  up  its  po- 
sition in  front  of  the  Alexandra  Hotel,  where  the 
two  novelists  were  staying,  and  was  braying  out 
its  brazen  music  with  great  vigor.  Presently  a 
Highland  piper  took  up  his  position  near  the  band, 
and  with  mincing  step  and  many  flourishes  gave 
full  voice  to  his  instrument.  'I  just  bet  the  piper 
will  beat  the  Teutons,'  said  Mr.  Harte.  And  he 
was  right.  The  band  retired  discomfited.  '  But 
that  isn't  the  real  piping  at  all,'  observed  Black. 

248 


BLACK     AS    A    YACHTSMAN 

'Is  the  real  thing,  then,  more  intense?'  asked  Harte. 
'  Yes ;  you  should  hear  a  band  of  pipers,  say  at  Edin- 
burgh. Their  combined  music  was  once  described 
by  an  entranced  listener  as  "jest  like  paradise." 
Was  it  not  Sydney  Smith  who  said  that  his  idea  of 
heaven  was  eating  foie  gras  to  the  sound  of  trum- 
pets? A  Scotchman  would  have  said  bagpipes  in- 
stead of  trumpets/" 

In  confirmation  of  Mr.  Bradbury's  estimate  of 
Black  as  a  yachtsman  I  may  mention  that  once, 
after  a  very  rough  and  difficult  passage,  during 
which  Black  had  been  at  the  helm  all  the  time,  the 
skipper,  not  ordinarily  given  to  compliments,  said : 
"  Well,  sir,  if  all  else  fails,  Mr.  Black  himself  will 
always  be  able  to  be  a  pilot  on  this  coast ;  he  knows 
it  so  well." 


CHAPTER  VI 

AMERICAN  FRIENDSHIPS 

American  Friends  in  London — Yolande — Judith  Shakespeare — 
Black  as  a  Salmon-fisher — Mr.  Marston's  Reminiscences — 
Loch  Naver — The  Novelist  on  His  Methods  of  Work  and  the 
Worth  of  His  Critics — Letter  to  His  Niece — His  Love  of  Family — 
Letter  to  His  Daughter — Friendship  with  Miss  Mary  Anderson 
— Mad  Pranks — Black's  First  Appearance  on  the  Stage — And 
His  Last — An  Imaginative  Reporter — Strange  Adventures  of 
a  Houseboat — Mr.  Bowker's  Reminiscences — Sabina  Zembra — 
Suffering  from  the  Vagus  Nerve. 

BLACK'S  friendships  between  the  eighties  and 
nineties  were  largely  formed  among  Amer- 
icans visiting  or  resident  in  England.  He  had 
never  forgotten  the  pleasant  days  which  he  had 
spent  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic;  and  in  his 
visit  to  the  United  States  may  be  found  the  origin 
of  the  deep  interest  that  he  took  in  everything  as- 
sociated with  the  great  republic.  But  it  was  not 
until  1881  that  he  began  to  form  that  circle  of  in- 
timate friends  of  American  birth  in  which  he  found 
so  much  pleasure  during  his  later  years.  He  did 
not  lose  touch  with  his  older  friends.  He  remained 
on  terms  of  close  intimacy  with  the  artists  in  whose 
work  he  delighted,  and  his  personal  friends  were 
just  as  dear  to  him  as  they  had  ever  been.  But  he 
threw  himself  with  characteristic  impetuosity  into 

250 


AMERICAN    FRIENDS 

the  society  of  the  Americans  resident  in  London, 
and  henceforth  for  several  years  I  think  that  he 
was  more  frequently  to  be  found  in  their  company 
than  in  that  of  his  fellow-countrymen.  His  Celtic 
nature  found  something  congenial  in  the  nervous, 
highly  strung  temperament  of  the  average  Amer- 
ican. He  had  never,  as  I  have  shown,  been  alto- 
gether at  home  in  ordinary  English  society.  His 
fidelity  to  old  friends  alone  reconciled  him  to  the 
companionship  of  many  of  those  who  had  been  his 
life-long  associates;  but  with  his  fellow-Celts,  and 
with  the  brilliant,  quick-witted  American,  he  be- 
came friends  at  once,  as  though  by  instinct.  In 
the  first  instance,  he  was  thrown  into  contact  with 
the  American  circle  in  London  by  the  business  re- 
lations which  sprang  up  between  himself  and  the 
representatives  in  England  of  the  great  publish- 
ing house  of  Harper's.  New  lights  were  arising 
in  the  world  of  English  fiction,  and  Black's  day, 
which  had  once  been  one  of  almost  unparalleled 
brilliancy,  was  beginning,  as  was  inevitable  in 
the  nature  of  things,  to  be  less  brilliant.  It  is  given 
to  no  writer  in  this  world  of  changing  tastes  and 
ideals  to  retain  supreme  control  of  the  reading  pub- 
lic for  an  indefinite  period.  Sooner  or  later,  unless 
the  writer's  life  be  prematurely  cut  short,  new  gods 
arrive,  and  the  fervor  of  the  old  worship  subsides. 
Even  the  great  Scott  experienced  the  common  fate, 
and  no  lesser  man  can  claim  to  have  been  exempt 
from  it.  Black's  admirers  were  very  faithful,  and 
to  the  very  end  he  retained  a  host  of  them ;  but  the 
charm  of  novelty  which,  in  his  earlier  works,  had 

251 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

fascinated  the  reading  public,  was  inevitably  lost 
with  the  passage  of  the  years,  and  writers  of  a  dif- 
ferent school  began  to  contest  with  him  the  suprem- 
acy that  he  had  so  long  enjoyed  without  serious 
rivalry  or  dispute.  Yet,  while  this  was  the  case 
in  England,  it  was  notable  that  in  America  his  pop- 
ularity seemed  to  grow,  rather  than  to  wane,  as 
time  advanced;  and  undoubtedly,  from  1882  onward, 
the  number  of  his  admirers  and  readers  was  prob- 
ably greater  in  the  United  States  than  in  his  own 
country.  Shandon  Bells  had  been  published  in 
1882  as  the  principal  serial  in  Harper's  Magazine 
for  that  year;  and  after  that  many  of  his  novels 
were  first  given  to  the  world  through  that  medium. 
The  agents  of  the  Harpers  in  London  were  men 
who  were  worthy  of  the  distinguished  place  they 
held  as  the  representatives  of  American  journal- 
ism and  literature  in  England.  With  some  of  them, 
and  notably  with  James  Osgood  and  J.  Henry  Har- 
per, he  became  on  terms  of  real  and  deep  affec- 
tion. In  all  of  them  he  found  congenial  and  inti- 
mate friends.  Naturally,  he  became  known  through 
them  to  great  numbers  of  their  fellow-countrymen 
and  countrywomen  who  were  either  residing  in 
England  or  temporarily  passing  through  it,  and,  as 
I  have  stated,  the  consequence  was  the  creation  of 
that  circle  of  cultured  Americans  in  which  he  was 
during  the  remainder  of  his  life  a  distinguished  and 
admired  figure. 

The  American  public,  long  after  Black's  feat- 
ures had  become  familiar  in  England,  were  still 
anxious  to  know  something  of  his  person  and  his 

252 


BLACK'S     PORTRAITS 

life;  and  in  December,  1882,  there  appeared  in  Har- 
per's Magazine  the  article  describing  Paston  House 
from  which  some  extracts  have  been  given  in  a  pre- 
vious chapter.  The  article  was  accompanied  by 
a  portrait,  copied  from  a  photograph. 

To  Mr.  Bowker. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

June  16,  1882. 
MY  DEAR  BOWKER,— I  enclose  two  photographs  that 
I  have  hunted  out ;  at  all  events  they  are  better,  I  think, 
than  the  photograph  of  Pettie's  picture.  This  was  really 
a  side  sketch  when  he  was  painting  "  The  Man  in  Armor," 
and  a  fanciful  sketch,  too ;  for  I  don't  generally  walk  about 
in  an  overcoat  without  a  hat,  and  I  don't  stand  bolt  up- 
right when  I  am  smoking,  and  I  never  wear  a  flower  in 
my  buttonhole.  .  .  .  Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

Shandon  Bells  increased  Black's  circle  of  read- 
ers in  America,  and  though  the  story  was,  as  he 
himself  said,  of  too  thoughtful  and  introspective  a 
character  to  be  as  widely  popular  in  England  as 
some  of  his  previous  books,  it  had  many  warm  ad- 
mirers among  those  whose  praise  was  distinctly 
worth  having.  Among  others,  the  late  William 
Allingham,  the  poet,  wrote  to  Black  to  congratulate 
him  on  the  completion  of  this  touching  and  delight- 
ful tribute  to  his  dead  friend : 

To  William  Black. 

Sandhills,  Witley, 

December  5,  1 883. 
MY  DEAR  Mr.  BLACK, — It  gratified  me  much  to  receive 
your  kind  gift  of  Shandon  Bells,  and  I  have  read  the  charm- 

253 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

ing  story  with  real  interest  and  delight.  I  am  a  Northerner, 
but  from  Donegal,  the  most  Irish  of  Ulster  counties,  with 
mountains  and  sea-bays  and  fishful  rivers,  and  a  pleasant- 
mannered,  very  poor  people.  Perhaps  I  was  the  more 
at  home  in  the  story  for  personal  reasons.  I  was  older 
than  Fitzgerald,  and  scarcely  so  handsome,  when  I  made 
my  first  attack  upon  London,  but  still  young,  and  there  is, 
perhaps,  somewhere  in  a  dusty  drawer  a  rejected  review 
of  a  novel  which  I  wrote  at  that  time  on  Rhadamanthine 
principles.  (My  mother's  mother,  by-the-by,  was  Kitty 
Fitzgerald,  and  I  was  nothing  but  "  Master  Willie  "  for 
many  an  early  year.)  Your  characters  are  lifelike,  and 
pleasant  human  beings,  the  scenes  in  which  they  move 
enchantingly  painted,  and  there  is  a  very  wholesome 
and  kindly  tone  throughout.  I  shall  always  recol- 
lect the  book  with  an  agreeable  sensation,  and  not 
the    less    for    connecting    it   with    my    own    little    fairy 

rhyme.  .  .  . 

Very  truly  yours, 

W.  ALLINGHAM. 

Yolande,  which  followed  Shandon  Bells,  was  writ- 
ten in  the  autumn  and  winter  of  1882,  the  scene  of 
the  story  being  laid,  as  I  have  already  told,  in  the 
remote  district  of  Stronelairg,  where  the  Scotch 
holiday  of  that  year  had  been  spent.  The  story 
was  published  in  the  first  place  as  a  serial  in  the 
Illustrated  London  News. 

In  Yolande  the  heroine  is  a  young  girl  who  rescues 
her  mother,  at  great  cost  to  herself,  from  the  evil 
habit  of  indulgence  in  narcotic  drugs.  How  careful 
Black  was  to  gain  accurate  information  upon  every 
subject  he  touched  in  his  novels  the  following  letter 
will  show: 

254 


JUDITH     SHAKESPEARE 


>  > 


To  Dr.  Lauder  Brunton. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

January  I,  1883. 
MY  DEAR  BRUNTON, — I  suppose  the  following  informa- 
tion that  I  want  could  be  got  out  of  some  of  your  books, 
and  if  you  would  have  the  great  kindness  to  tell  me  which 
it  is,  I  will  get  it  through  a  bookseller  here.  I  would  not 
bother  you  (for  you  are  sure  to  be  busily  occupied  just 
now),  but  the  whole  of  my  next  novel  turns  upon  this  point, 
and  I  want  to  be  accurate. 

1.  About  what  time  chloral  began  to  be  used  by  lay 
persons. 

2.  Also  chlorodyne. 

3.  Is  there  much  difference  (in  a  general,  not  in  a  strictly 
scientific,  way)  between  them? 

4.  What  dose  would  a  woman  take  who  was  breaking 
herself  of  the  habit,  felt  very  bad,  and  had  for  once  to  re- 
turn to  her  old  enemy? 

5.  What  effect  would  the  same  dose  have  on  a  person 
of  eighteen  or  twenty  who  had  never  touched  stimulant 
of  any  kind? 

6.  What  is  the  taste  (I  mean  to  an  unvitiated  palate) 
and  the  odor? 

Of  course,  I  don't  want  precise  scientific  information 
(I  am  not  going  in  for  a  murder  trial),  but  just  the  briefest 
statement.  If  it  isn't  in  any  of  your  books  perhaps  you 
could  recommend  me  one.     Pray  forgive  all  the  bother. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

It  was  very  early  in  1883  that  Black  began  to 
evolve  the  story  of  Judith  Shakespeare.  He  had 
already  studied  with  care  the  life  of  Shakespeare 
and  the  condition  of  contemporary  England  as  it  has 
been  revealed  to  us  by  the  work  of  Shakespearian 

255 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

students.  There  was  no  story  of  Black's  which 
involved  him  in  more  serious  labor  than  this  of 
Judith  Shakespeare.  It  is  something  more  than  a 
romance.  It  is  a  genuine  and  valuable  study  of 
the  England  of  Shakespeare's  day,  and  of  the  cir- 
cumstances which  surrounded  his  name  at  Strat- 
f ord-on-Avon.  When  it  was  completed,  Mr.  Halliwell 
Phillips,  the  eminent  Shakespearian  student  and 
authority,  wrote  to  Black  to  say  that  after  reading 
the  novel  he  felt  that  he  could  no  longer  be  consid- 
ered the  Shakesperian  authority  of  the  day.  The 
mantle  had  fallen  upon  Black's  shoulders.  But 
when  his  friends  first  heard  of  Black's  intention  to 
write  a  story  on  such  a  subject,  and  to  bring  the 
greatest  of  all  the  figures  in  our  literary  history  into 
the  pages  of  a  novel,  some  of  them,  at  least,  were 
filled  with  genuine  apprehension.  To  one  of  these 
friends,  to  whom  he  had  communicated  his  inten- 
tion, and  who  had  written  to  point  out  to  him 
the  difficulties  and  dangers  he  must  encounter  if 
he  persevered  in  his  scheme,  Black  wrote  as  fol- 
lows : 

I  am  greatly  obliged  by  your  hints  re  Shakespeare,  and 
quite  see  the  force  of  what  you  say,  but  perhaps  I  didn't 
sufficiently  explain  that  the  awful  figure  of  Billy  will  only 
appear  as  a  sort  of  presence  in  the  background.  It  is 
the  young  woman  I  should  have  to  deal  with ;  and  I  should 
make  her  a  modern  young  woman  (only  she  couldn't  write 
her  own  name)  in  the  modern  scenery  and  atmosphere 
of  Warwickshire.  I  should  have  very  little  antiquarianism 
for  any  pedantic  creature  to  quarrel  with,  and,  as  regards 
contemporaries  and  contemporary  events,  I  should  beg 

256 


A    FISHING    TRIP 

Furnivall,  or  some  other  good  Christian,  to  go  over  the 
proofs  to  insure  accuracy.  However,  we  will  postpone 
the  subject  until  you  come  up  to  London. 

Black  did  not  do  justice  to  himself  in  his  slighting 
reference  to  antiquarianism.     As  I   have  said,  he 
studied  deeply  and  seriously  for  many  months  the 
Shakesperian  literature  before  he  began  his  work. 
When  it  was  finished,  it  was  to  Mr.  Halliwell  Phillips, 
not  Dr.  Furnivall,  that  the  proofs  were  submitted, 
and  I  have  already  given  the  verdict  which  was 
pronounced  upon  them  by  this  erudite  authority. 
None  the  less,  it  is  true  that  the  story  betrays  noth- 
ing of  the  pedant  or  the  mere  student.     The  spirit 
of  life  breathes  through  it,  and  makes  its  people 
living  and  lovable  human  beings,  who  move  in  their 
archaic  world  as  the  men   and  women  of   to-day 
move   in    ours,   though    no   anachronism  is   to   be 
found  in  the  story  to  destroy  its  effectiveness.    Shake- 
speare himself  is   never   mentioned   by  name,  but 
only  as  "Judith's  father,"  yet  he  remains,  as  Black 
promised  in  the  foregoing  letter,  a  constant  figure 
in  the  background.     The   work  when  it  appeared 
wras  recognized  as  a  real  and  remarkable  tour  de 
force,  and  it  was  received  with  special  enthusiasm 
by  the  American  readers,  to  whom  it  was  first  intro- 
duced in  the  pages  of  Harper's  Magazine. 

In  the  autumn  of  1883  Black  went  to  Altnaharra, 
in  Sutherlandshire,  to  fish.  This  wild  and  lonely 
spot  was  for  many  years  a  favorite  resort  of  his, 
and  he  used  it  both  in  White  Heather  and  Donald 
Ross  of  Heimra.  He  was  an  expert  fisherman, 
«7  257 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

and  quite  as  enthusiastic  in  landing  a  salmon  as  in 
stalking  a  deer.  He  threw  a  most  delicate  fly,  using 
a  particularly  long  line,  and  those  who  have  fished 
with  him  declare  that  they  have  known  few  anglers 
more  skilful.  It  was  in  1872,  when  he  visited  the 
island  of  Lewis  for  the  purpose  of  studying  the  scen- 
ery for  A  Princess  of  Thule,  that  he  caught  his  first 
salmon  in  Loch  Roag.  After  that  he  fished  almost 
every  year,  and  with  almost  uniform  success.  He 
tried  Ireland  on  more  than  one  occasion,  and  was  a 
successful  fisher  in  the  Shannon.  For  several  sea- 
sons he  made  Altnaharra  his  headquarters  for  fish- 
ing, sharing  Loch  Naver  with  his  brother-in-law,  Mr. 
Morten.  Then  he  went  to  the  Oykel,  and  fished  there 
for  more  than  a  dozen  years.  In  addition  to  these 
he  had  odd  seasons  on  the  Ness,  the  Spean,  and 
Loch  Awe.  How  many  salmon  he  caught  in  his 
life  it  would  be  difficult  to  compute,  but  Mrs.  Black 
declares  that  the  number  is  to  be  counted  by  the 
hundred.  More  than  once  on  Loch  Naver  he  landed 
his  three  good  fish  in  a  day,  and  on  one  memorable 
occasion  his  bag  consisted  of  five  salmon.  The 
sport,  when  he  was  engaged  in  it,  seemed  to  absorb 
every  faculty  of  his  nature,  and  it  may  be  questioned 
if  a  more  enthusiastic  angler  ever  lived.  To  the 
last  he  declared  that  the  triumphant  joy  of  playing 
and  landing  your  fish  never  grew  stale  in  the  heart  of 
the  true  fisherman.  He  was  one  of  those  anglers 
who  can  delight  in  their  favorite  sport  even  when  they 
are  far  from  loch  or  river.  I  have  seen  him  stand- 
ing at  the  head  of  the  drawing-room  staircase  in 
Paston  House  practising  with  a  great  rod  over  the 

258 


LOVE    OF    SPORT 

hall  beneath  him,  and  whenever  opportunity  served 
he  had  his  rods  put  together  and  his  lines  unreeled. 
He  taught  his  children  to  throw  a  long  and  fine 
line,  and  nothing  delighted  him  more  than  the  skill 
which  they  attained  in  the  sport.  Fishing,  in  short, 
was  nothing  less  than  a  passion  with  Black.  It 
figures  largely,  as  all  his  readers  know,  in  his  books, 
but  it  played  a  still  greater  part  in  his  real  life.  It 
formed  a  bond  of  union  between  himself  and  friends 
with  whom  he  had  little  else  in  common,  while  it 
strengthened  the  ties  which  united  him  to  men  of 
letters  such  as  Mr.  Lang,  who  was  once  his  guest 
during  the  spring  season  on  the  Oykel,  and  who 
bears  testimony  to  his  extraordinary  keenness  in 
the  sport. 

Critics  have  at  times  complained  of  the  extent 
to  which  fishing  and  shooting,  yachting  and  deer- 
stalking occupy  his  novels.  If  he  had  been  one  of 
those  cockney  sportsmen  who  eke  out  a  small  sport- 
ing experience  in  their  writings  for  the  sake  of  at- 
tracting a  certain  class  of  readers,  there  would  have 
been  reason  in  this  complaint,  but  this  was  not  the 
case.  The  element  of  sport  figures  so  largely  in 
his  writings  simply  because  he  could  not  help  it. 
He  loved  his  rod,  his  gun,  or  the  tiller  of  a  sailing- 
boat,  and  he  had  a  strong  conviction  that  all  healthy 
and  manly  men  ought  to  share  his  love  for  such 
things.  He  did  not  sit  down  of  set  purpose  to  write 
a  sporting  novel.  In  the  very  nature  of  things  it 
would  have  been  hateful  to  him  to  do  so;  nor  did 
he  ever  in  any  story  forget  his  main  theme — the 
fortunes  of  his  hero  and  heroine.     But  when   the 

259 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

opportunity  occurred,  he  delighted  to  take  the  char- 
acters of  his  fictions  through  the  sports  which  af- 
forded him  so  much  joy,  and  into  one  narrative  or 
another  he  interwove  his  own  happy  adventures  on 
loch,  on  river,  or  moor.  It  is  in  this  way  that  Black's 
novels  are  to  be  differentiated  from  the  ordinary 
sporting  story.  The  sport  comes  into  them  nat- 
urally, born  of  his  own  wealth  of  experience,  and  in 
nothing  that  he  wrote — not  even  in  his  vivid  pict- 
ures of  scenery — was  he  more  absolutely  natural  and 
honest  than  in  those  pages  in  which  he  recounted, 
under  a  thin  veil  of  fiction,  his  own  exploits  with 
the  salmon-rod  at  Altnaharra  and  other  spots  not 
less  beloved. 

I  am  permitted  to  quote  from  an  article  in  The 
Country  a  description  by  his  friend  Mr.  Robert 
Marston  of  Black  as  a  fly-fisher : 

"  Marston,  when  you  have  fished  this  pool  I  want  you 
to  go  on  up  the  river  with  Colin,  up  to  the  Badsteps,  and 
then  fish  down,  and  Morten  and  I  will  meet  you  at  the 
Burn  for  lunch." 

Alas!  that  the  two  friends  standing  on  the  bank,  looking 
the  picture  of  health  and  strength,  were  to  see  but  few 
more  springs  drive  winter  out  of  the  charming  valley  of 
the  Oykel  in  their  beloved  Highlands. 

The  speaker  was  my  late  friend  William  Black,  by  whose 
and  our  mutual  friend  Morten's  invitation  I  was  a  guest 
at  Langwell  Lodge  one  spring  a  few  years  ago.  Millions 
have  read  Black's  novels,  strong,  sweet,  fresh  as  the  moun- 
tain air,  but  to  have  fished  with  him  and  day  after  day  to 
have  lived  in  his  delightful  company  was  indeed  a  rare 
pleasure.  Spring  salmon-fishing  in  the  far  north  of  Scot- 
land is  dependent  on  the  weather.     Any  one  who  has  en- 

260 


A    FISHING     SCENE 

joyed  it  knows  what  this  means.  After  a  day  or  two  of 
almost  summer  weather  you  may  wake  up  to  find  nature 
has  whitewashed  everything,  and  that  a  howling  snow- 
storm makes  the  sweet-smelling  peat  fire  more  attractive 
than  the  side  of  the  dark  salmon-pool  lashed  into  foam 
by  the  freezing  eastern  gale.  Then  we  three  fishermen 
toasted  our  toes  at  the  pleasant  blaze,  listening  to  the 
"  howling  of  the  wolves,"  as  Black  termed  it,  and  told 
tales  of  sport  with  rod  and  gun.  My  part  was  chiefly 
to  listen,  for  my  friends  had  fished  and  shot  and  lived 
together  for  many  a  long  year,  and  had  an  inexhaustible 
mine  of  memories  to  draw  upon,  not  of  sport  only,  but  on 
every  subject  of  any  human  interest.  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  William  Black  was  only  a  pen  -  sportsman,  that  the 
unequalled  descriptions  of  deer-stalking  and  salmon-fish- 
ing to  be  found  in  his  delightful  stories  were  the  work 
of  his  imagination  only,  but  I  can  assert  absolutely  that 
this  is  not  the  case.  His  descriptions  are  from  actual 
personal  experience,  as  any  sportsman  who  reads  them 
must  at  once  see. 

I  have  seen  him  wading  waist-deep  in  the  ice-cold  river, 
sending  his  salmon  fly  out  gracefully  over  the  long  Lang- 
well  Pool,  covering  every  yard  of  the  cast,  seen  his  light 
Castleconnell  bending  as  he  struck  a  lively  fish,  watched 
him  as  the  fish  tore  the  line  off  the  reel,  seen  his  face  flush 
with  quiet  excitement  as  the  fish  dived  into  the  air  or  made 
for  some  dangerous  place.  And  when  the  battle  was  over, 
and  the  clean-run,  silvery  salmon  was  lying  at  our  feet  on 
the  bank,  Black  would  say,  "  That  twenty  minutes  was 
worth  a  month  in  London." 

To  Norman  Lockyer. 

Altnaharra, 

September  5,  1 883. 
MY  DEAR  LOCKYER,— Glad  to  hear  you  are  in  the  High- 
lands, and    hope    Romanes    is   teaching  you  that  Mun- 

261 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

chausen  trick  of  shooting  three  or  four  grouse  in  a  line. 
As  for  fishing,  the  season  here  stops  on  Monday  next, 
and  we  all  go  off  to  the  familiar  Alexandra  (Oban)  next 
day.  But  the  autumn  fishing  of  Loch  Naver  (which  loch 
Morten  and  I  have  rented  for  next  year,  and  which  I  shall 
probably  take  a  lease  of)  is  a  thing  of  naught :  it  is  a  spring 
salmon  loch  (the  best  in  Sutherlandshire),  with  the  season 
beginning  January  ioth.  So  if  on  January  ioth  next 
you  will  present  yourself  here,  you  will  find  the  little  inn 
very  comfortable,  and  the  salmon  elbowing  each  other  to 
get  into  your  boat.  But  I  would  not,  if  I  were  you,  leave 
my  overcoat  behind.  I  have  had  no  holiday  this  year ;  but 
the  change  of  air  has  pulled  me  up,  and  I  am  going  back 
to  have  another  bang  at  Master  William. 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

February  25,  1884. 
MY  DEAR  LOCKYER,— Dolly  Morten  says  you  men- 
tioned the  salmon- fishing  the  other  day.  I  haven't  written 
to  you  because  it  was  no  use — the  river  has  been  frozen 
over;  but  on  Thursday  last  the  first  salmon  was  caught, 
by  the  keeper ;  so  if  you  like  to  run  the  risk  of  the  weather, 
and  can  find  a  companion  to  go  with  you,  the  place  is  open 
to  you.  Wire  to  Mr.  Mackay,  Oykel  Bridge  Inn,  by  Lairg, 
N.B.,  to  have  a  trap  waiting  for  you  at  Invershin  Station. 
He  also  will  find  you  a  gillie.  I  can't  go  up  just  now — 
just  finishing  my  work;  but  W.  L.  Bright  and  I  propose 
to  go  on  the  evening  of  March  gth,  unless  the  reports 
of  the  weather  are  too  discouraging.  There  is  plenty  of 
room  on  the  river  for  three  rods,  and  you  could  stay  to 
the  end  of  March  if  you  have  the  time.  But  it's  all  a  ques- 
tion of  luck  as  regards  the  weather.  I  don't  mind ;  I  mean 
to  take  some  work  with  me,  and  if  I'm  frozen  up  will  have 

262 


LOCH    NAVER 

a  big  peat-fire  in  my  bedroom  and  turn  out  manuscript  like 
a  mangle.  Let  me  know  what  you  think.  I  cannot  take 
the  risk  of  advising  you.  I  have  asked  the  keeper  to  send 
me  word  as  to  the  prospects ;  but  that  again  is  not  much 
use ;  the  whole  condition  of  affairs  might  change  in  twelve 
hours.  Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

In  March,  Black  went  up  to  the  Naver  with  Mr. 
Leatham  Bright,  and  enjoyed  the  sport  to  his  heart's 
content.  I  remember  that  we  dined  together  on 
the  night  on  wrhich  he  started  for  the  north,  and  he 
was  in  the  high  spirits  of  a  boy  who  had  finished 
his  task  and  was  on  the  eve  of  his  holidays.  The 
weather  was  cold  in  London,  and  promised  to  be 
still  colder  in  Sutherlandshire,  but  he  rejoiced  in 
the  prospect  of  snow  and  sleet  and  fierce  wintry 
winds,  and  exulted  in  the  thought  of  the  salmon  he 
was  to  induce  from  the  cold  waters  of  the  loch  into 
his  boat.  The  sport  that  season  was  not  particu- 
larly good,  but  he  came  back  to  London  looking  a 
perfect  picture  of  health,  with  bronzed  face,  rough- 
ened skin,  and  hardened  figure  —  a  salmon-fisher 
rather  than  an  author  to  the  very  tips  of  his  fingers. 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Reform  Club, 

June  i,  1884. 

My  DEAR  CRERAR, — I  shall  be  delighted  to  welcome 

Mr.  Gordon  when  he  comes  over,  and  hope  I  shall  not  fail 

to  be  in  London  when  he  arrives.     But  that  is  doubtful, 

for  to-morrow  Matthew  Arnold,  E.  A.  Abbey,  and  I  start 

away  on  a  coaching  trip  under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Carnegie. 

However,  we  only  go  through  the  southern  counties  of 

263 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

England,  and  the  tour  won't  last  long.  I  wish  you  were 
here  to-day  to  join  a  little  dinner-party  I  am  giving,  at 
which  several  Americans  will  be  present — Bret  Harte, 
John  Hay,  Abbey,  Clarence  King,  Carnegie,  and  so  forth. 
Carnegie  tells  me  your  business  prospects  look  brighter ; 
but  I  hope  the  Wall  Street  affair  won't  make  much  difference. 
Things  are  pretty  bad  here  at  present,  and  artists  can't 
get  their  pictures  sold  at  all.  I  have  but  recently  got  back 
from  Sutherland,  where  I  had  six  weeks'  salmon-fishing 
in  Loch  Naver.  We  caught  one  hundred  and  two,  of  which 
I  had  thirty-two.  In  the  autumn  there  will  be  no  fishing 
for  vis.  I  propose  to  take  my  wife  and  the  small  ones  a 
trip  down  the  Mediterranean  in  a  Cunarder. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

The  appearance  of  the  first  instalment  of  Judith 
Shakespeare  in  the  January  number  of  Harper's 
Magazine  in  1884  brought  the  usual  flood  of  criti- 
cism about  his  head.  As  I  have  already  told,  he 
did  not  like  criticism,  and  set  but  a  small  value  upon 
it.  When  he  could  he  avoided  reading  the  press 
notices  of  his  books ;  but  sometimes  this  was  hardly 
possible,  and  then  he  was  irritated  not  so  much  by 
the  severity  of  a  criticism  as  by  the  slipshod  inac- 
curacy of  the  critic. 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

December  27,  1883. 

MY  DEAR  YOUTH,— You  ought  to  know  by  this  time 

that   the   ways  of  reviewers   are   past   finding   out.     On 

Wednesday  last  week  there  was  a  notice  in  that  same  D.  N. 

of  the  first  part  of  Judith  Shakespeare.    In  that  part,  Judith 

264 


THE    CRITICS 

is  represented  as  having  a  suitor,  John  Quiney,  who  is, 
of  course,  well  known  to  her.  A  wizard  appears  and  tells 
her  she  will  marry  a  man  she  has  not  yet  seen,  and  tells 
her  how  she  may  get  sight  of  him.  Whereupon  the  critic 
observes  that  the  intelligent  ( ! )  novel-reader  will  immediately 
see  that  the  wizard  and  Tom  Quiney  are  one  and  the  same 
person;  but  that  this  should  not  be  perceived  by  Judith 
Shakespeare  herself  is  one  of  the  notifications  which 
are  within  the  privilege  of  the  novelist.  I  say  no ;  such  a 
hopelessly  fatuous  mystification  is  not  within  the  privileges 
of  the  novelist,  but  within  the  privileges  of  the  incom^ 
petent  critic  who  wishes  to  show  himself  clever.  The 
same  writer,  professing  to  know  something  of  the  Shake- 
speare time  and  family,  talks  of  Judith  as  being  the  "  young- 
est "  and  having  "  sisters  "1  !  But  why  should  one  heed? 
I  hope  you  will  have  clear  weather  in  the  south.  It  is 
dreadful  here.  Bon  voyage,  and  a  happy  New  Year  to 
you  and  yours. 

Yours  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

A  letter  of  his  which  he  addressed  some  years 
later  to  the  editor  of  the  Daily  Graphic  describes 
his  views,  not  only  with  regard  to  critics  and  criti- 
cisms but  on  the  writing  of  novels,  so  freshly  and 
freely  that  I  may  insert  it  here : 

Critics  out  of  their  kindness  and  condescension  are  so 
frequently  given  to  teaching  a  writer  of  books  his  own 
business  that  the  very  humblest  of  a  notoriously  humble 
tribe  may  be  forgiven  if  he  would  fain  return  the  com- 
pliment and  show  the  reviewers  how  a  review  should  be 
written.  But,  first  of  all,  let  us  see  how  the  production 
that  is  to  be  considered  and  judged  may  have  come  to  see 
the  light.     We  will  assume  that  it  is  a  work  of  fiction. 

265 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

We  will  say  that  the  idea  has  quite  unexpectedly  occurred 
to  the  hapless  author  when  he  would  far  rather  be  let  alone ; 
probably  his  hands  are  full ;  perhaps  he  has  been  wistful- 
ly looking  forward  to  an  untrammelled  holiday.  But  this 
unwelcome  visitant  takes  possession  of  him  in  a  most 
surprising  manner.  Before  he  can  look  about  him  he  is 
whisked  away  into  space.  The  unholy  sprite  by  leaps 
and  bounds  drags  him  "  through  bog,  through  bush, 
through  brake,  through  brier,"  and  ends  by  introducing 
him  to  a  certain  number  of  phantoms,  who  gradually 
reveal  themselves  out  of  the  surrounding  obscurity.  Alas, 
from  that  day  this  poor  man  is  doomed!  Those  ghosts, 
as  they  become  more  and  more  visible,  grow  to  be  clamor- 
ous vampires.  Nay,  they  are  worse  than  any  vampires ; 
they  demand  not  only  blood,  they  demand  bones  and  flesh, 
temperaments  and  dispositions,  motives,  actions,  even 
clothes!  And  so,  to  pacify  their  insatiate  claims,  the 
luckless  wretch  has  to  go  about  and  steal.  He  filches 
here  a  smile,  and  there  the  curve  of  a  neck  and  shoulder, 
here  some  flash  of  a  liquid  eye,  there  some  tranquil  braid 
of  hair ;  he  ransacks  his  own  experiences  and  studies  those 
of  his  friends ;  he  undertakes  long  journeys  to  provide  that 
unappeasable  crew  with  a  blue  sky  and  a  vernal  earth. 

From  morning  till  night,  week  in  and  week  out,  they 
haunt  him  everywhere.  He  may  be  wandering  through 
the  labyrinthine  bazaars  of  Assiout;  he  may  be  staring 
into  a  salmon-pool  in  Ross-shire,  waiting  for  the  clouds  to 
come  over  and  obscure  the  sun ;  he  may  be  in  his  orchard, 
trying  to  estimate  what  this  year's  crop  of  apples  will 
fetch;  but  always  beside  him  and  around  him  are  these 
implacable  attendants.  It  is  no  use  for  him  to  remon- 
strate, or  bid  them  begone ;  they  take  no  heed  of  bad  lan- 
guage ;  their  pursuit  is  relentless.  And  by  slow  degrees, 
but  inevitably,  they  become  more  real  to  him  than  his  ac- 
tual neighbors.     He  takes  a  woman  into  dinner,  and  after  a 

266 


HOW    A    NOVELIST    WORKS 

little  while  she  says  to  herself,  "  Why,  this  is  the  stupidest 
fool  I  have  ever  met  with  in  all  my  life  "  ;  whereas  the  fact 
is,  the  poor  man  is  anxiously  listening  to  those  ghost- 
ly companions,  and  incessantly  watching  them.  For  by 
this  time  they  have  begun  to  do  things ;  and  just  as  often 
as  not  they  are  entirely  beyond  his  control ;  so  that  while 
he  is  apparently  busy  with  his  soup,  a  murder  may  be 
taking  place  before  his  very  eyes,  and  he  unable  to  interfere! 

Very  well;  after  about  a  year  or  eighteen  months  of 
this  pleasant  sort  of  life  he  thinks  he  will  begin  and  describe 
those  people  and  their  doings.  For  this  purpose  he  prob- 
ably demands  absolute  solitude.  Sometimes  he  builds 
for  himself  an  attic  and  has  a  ladder  that  he  can  draw 
up  after  him  to  guard  against  intrusion;  sometimes  he 
goes  away  into  foreign  parts;  sometimes  it  is  in  a  quiet 
corner  of  the  library  of  his  club  that  he  proceeds  to  wrestle 
with  the  demons.  And  at  first  there  is  not  much  difficulty. 
During  all  this  long  time  he  has  been  becoming  more  and 
more  familiar  with  them  and  their  ways ;  while,  as  regards 
the  mere  task  of  writing,  he  has  been  at  odd  hours  and 
moments  coining  and  storing  up  phrases  and  sentences 
that  come  readily  enough  to  hand  when  wanted.  Most 
likely  his  chief  aim  at  the  outset  is  to  get  those  characters 
to  stand  out  solid  and  sharp ;  to  have  a  strong  light  thrown 
full  on  them ;  to  drive  back  the  shadows  that  used  to  en- 
compass them ;  the  story,  with  all  its  shifting  play  and 
movement,  will  come  later  on.  We  will  say,  then,  that 
after  a  week's  incessant  toil  the  rough  draft  of  the  intro- 
ductory chapter  lies  on  his  desk. 

But  this  is  only  a  beginning.  If  he  is  a  wise  man  and  a 
lucky  man,  he  will  now  go  away  for  a  couple  of  days  golfing 
(during  this  interval  he  may  amuse  himself  by  considering 
what  his  imaginary  people  are  going  to  do  in  chapter  the 
second),  and  thereafter  he  will  return  to  the  manuscript 
with  fresh  eyes.     For  now  he  has  got  to  see  that,  so  far 

267 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

as  it  has  gone,  the  story  has  been  told  directly  and  clearly ; 
no  affected  ingenuities,  no  rococo  ornamentations,  no  cut- 
tlefish tricks  of  style.  Here  or  there  he  will  find  a  redun- 
dant epithet :  out  with  it !  Here  and  there  the  conversa- 
tion seems  stiff:  shake  it  loose  and  let  it  march  freely. 
What  time  he  may  spend  over  this  revision — over  these 
two  or  three  revisions — will  depend  on  his  own  tempera- 
ment; will  depend  on  whether  his  literary  conscience  is 
elastic  or  inexorable.  And  if  sentences  not  wholly  ap- 
proved of  will  haunt  him — so  that  even  as  he  may  be  en- 
joying a  holiday  tramp  over  Exmoor,  or  working  the  bow- 
oar  of  a  gondola  out  on  the  lagoon,  or  walking  with  Schon 
Rohtraut  by  far  northern  seas,  an  impertinent  and  in- 
truding phrase  will  suddenly  present  itself  in  his  memory, 
and  call  for  amendment  —  well,  he  must  simply  accept 
that  as  part  of  the  inevitable  travail  to  which  he  has  laid 
his  hand.  And  then,  after  a  long  and  laborious  year, 
perhaps  a  couple  of  long  and  laborious  years,  spent  for 
the  most  part  in  dreams  and  clouds,  the  book  is  completed 
and  issued. 

And  now  comes  in  the  reviewer's  part  of  the  business. 
He  it  is  who  (in  his  own  estimation  of  his  function  in  life) 
must  tell  us  what  is  the  net  result  and  value  of  all  this 
labor.  And,  perhaps,  it  might  be  invidious  to  seek  to 
know  his  qualifications  for  the  task,  even  as  one  would 
rather  not  inquire  into  his  antecedents,  or  ask  what  orig- 
inally induced  him  to  take  to  such  courses.  It  may  be 
said,  however,  that  it  will  advantage  him  greatly  if  he 
has  himself,  in  bygone  days,  published  a  few  neglected 
and  forgotten  novels,  for  that  will  enable  him  to  fix  with 
accuracy  the  date  at  which  English  fiction  reached  its 
zenith.  There  were  writers  who  could  write  in  those  days, 
he  will  be  able  to  say ;  but,  alas !  look  at  the  sad  times  on 
which  we  have  fallen  now.  Then,  it  is  not  in  the  least 
necessary  that  he  should  know  everything  ;  it  is  only  neces- 

268 


HOW     TO     CRITICISE 

sary  that  he  should  appear  to  know  everything ;  and  that, 
not  in  order  to  impress  the  public,  but  to  impress  his  editor. 
Beyond  and  above  all  else,  he  must  purge  his  mind  of  prej- 
udice. He  must  be  neither  the  disciple  nor  the  apostle  of 
any  cult ;  and  vigorously  must  he  guard  himself  against 
the  possibility  of  alien  influence.  If  the  wife  of  his  bosom 
should  show  symptoms  of  what  has  been  called  Ibsenity, 
then  must  he  divorce  her  (mentally)  on  the  spot;  let  him 
remember  that  many  schools  may  exist  side  by  side ;  that 
wisdom  is  not  confined  to  Boston,  nor  yet  to  the  banks 
(especially  the  mud-banks)  of  the  Seine.  Let  him  lay  to 
heart  these  words  of  Paul  to  the  Corinthians:  "There 
is  one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  glory  of  the  moon, 
and  another  glory  of  the  stars ;  for  one  star  differeth  from 
another  star  in  glory."  And  he  should  pray  Heaven  for 
humility — which  is  always  granted  when  the  petitioner 
is  sincere ;  pray  that  he  may  learn  and  labor  truly  to  get 
his  own  living,  and  do  his  duty  in  that  state  of  life  unto 
which  he  has,  unhappily,  been  called. 

Now  let  him  begin.  And  as  a  preliminary  (though  this 
has  been  doubted  by  some)  he  must  read  the  book;  and 
this  must  be  no  slouching,  after-dinner,  cigar-in-mouth 
sort  of  reading,  but  an  indefatigable,  close,  and  patient 
perusal  which  will  take  him  four  mornings  between  ten 
and  one.  This,  of  course,  is  only  to  get  a  fair  and  honest 
notion  of  the  current  of  the  story  and  its  chief  characters. 
Then,  on  the  fifth  morning,  he  will  go  back,  and  begin  to 
consider  the  construction  of  the  book ;  he  will  consider  how 
certain  things  have  been  pieced  together  ;  he  will  inquire  as 
to  whether  the  events  follow  each  other  naturally,  whether 
the  people  act  consistently,  whether  the  climax  is  in  proper 
and  inevitable  sequence.  In  this  second  reading,  too,  he 
may  have  regard  to  points  of  style ;  and  here,  again,  there 
shall  be  no  exacerbated  predilection  for  any  one  school, 
but  a  wise  and  gracious  tolerance. 

269 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

To  the  conscientious  reviewer  a  third  reading,  to  take 
in  the  general  effect  after  he  has  studied  the  craftsmanship 
down  to  its  minutest  details,  may  now  appear  desirable ; 
but  we  must  not  be  too  exacting.  Perhaps  he  is  himself 
a  busy  man,  unless  he  happens  to  have  a  post  in  a  govern- 
ment office.  We  will  rather  regard  him  as  he  sets  to  work 
after  the  second  reading,  when  he  has  got  into  committee, 
as  it  were.  And,  first  of  all,  he  must  not  assume  that  the 
novel  before  him  is  the  only  kind  of  novel  that  the  author 
has  written;  he  must  not  say,  "  Here  we  have  Mr.  So-and- 
so,  or  Mrs.  So-and-so,  with  all  the  well-known  features, 
same  old  characters,  same  old  incidents,  same  old  plot," 
for  that  might  be  telling  lies,  and  telling  lies  is  naughty. 
If  he  has  not  read  the  author's  other  books,  he  must  limit 
himself  to  the  one  he  has  in  hand,  and  not  presume  a  like- 
ness where  there  may  be  the  greatest  diversity;  and  most 
carefully  must  he  guard  against  taking  it  for  granted  that 
any  opinions  expressed  by  the  characters  in  a  story  are  the 
opinions  of  the  writer  of  the  story ;  for  in  this  way  it  would 
be  easy  to  convict  one  and  the  same  author  of  being  an 
Anarchist,  a  Tory,  a  Dissenter,  a  Catholic,  a  glutton,  a 
vegetarian,  a  lover  of  the  Stuarts,  an  anti- vaccinationist, 
and  a  poacher  of  spawning  trout. 

Nor  must  the  reviewer  allow  any  of  his  own  opinions 
to  interfere  with  his  dispassionate  judgment.  "  My  son," 
said  the  cure  to  the  workman  whom  he  met  in  the  road, 
"  are  you  Jansenist  or  Molinist?"  "  Moi,  mon  pere,"  was 
the  reply,  "je  suis  £beniste."  The  reviewer  must  stick 
to  his  trade:  we  don't  want  to  know  what  he  thinks 
of  republicanism  or  monarchical  government;  nor  may 
he  suffer  his  bias  one  way  or  the  other  to  affect  his  con- 
sideration of  the  book  before  him.  So  he  goes  on  with  his 
review.  As  it  is  easier  to  discover  defects  than  merits, 
he  will  naturally  pay  more  attention  to  the  latter;  and  if 
the  writer  of  the  novel  be  a  lady  he  will  not  be  too  hard  on 

270 


THE    CRITICS     CRITICISED 

her  Latin  or  her  law  or  any  tendency  to  slip  into  italics. 
As  for  such  things  as  Goethe,  bona  fide,  denouement, 
and  so  forth,  he  will  find  these  in  anybody's  book;  but 
when  he  does  find  them  he  must  not  yell  and  howl  and  call 
on  his  gods  to  smite  with  thunder ;  he  should  understand 
that  these  are  merely  the  little  playfulnesses  of  the  printer's 
reader,  inserted  after  the  author's  final  corrections  have 
been  sent  in,  and  that  all  that  is  required  of  him  (the  re- 
viewer) is  that  he  should  politely  point  out  these  small 
errors,  and  request  that  they  be  removed  from  the  next 
edition. 

On  the  whole,  it  will  be  better  to  write  out  a  rough  draft 
of  the  review,  and  then  scrupulously,  and  diligently,  revise 
it.  Its  style  ought  to  be  an  example;  also  its  tone,  its 
bland  magnanimity.  It  must  not  be  patronizing,  or, 
perhaps,  it  may  be  slightly  so,  for  something  must  be 
allowed  for  long  habit.  And  now  we  may  consider  this 
careful  and  admirable  composition  fairly  completed,  all 
pruned  and  polished  and  perfect.  Now  let  the  reviewer 
fold  the  MS.  neatly,  and  tie  it  up,  and  seal  it  with  wax. 
But  there  is  no  need  for  him  to  address  the  little  parcel; 
the  best  thing  he  can  do  with  it  now  is— to  thrust  it  in  the 
fire. 

The  "indolent  reviewer,"  it  is  possible,  may  not 
appreciate  this  ironic  treatment  of  his  craft,  but 
no  one  will  question  the  interest  attaching  to 
Black's  description  of  the  processes  through  which 
a  novel  must  pass  before  it  is  given  to  the  pub- 
lic. 

In  writing  to  the  younger  members  of  his  own 
family,  Black  delighted  in  keeping  up  a  jocular 
tone,  as  in  the  following  note  to  his  niece,  Miss 
Morten : 

271 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

To  Miss  Morten. 

Reform  Club, 

Thursday. 
MY  DEAR  DOLL, — Are  you  coming  up  to  see  us  before 
you  go  abroad?  I  should  like  to  tell  you  how  you  are 
to  take  care  of  the  poor  things  who  are  going  with  you. 
Just  in  case  you  can't  come  to  London,  here  are  a  few 
things  you  ought  to  remember  in  travelling.  You  must 
be  sure  whatever  custom-house  officers,  station-masters, 
or  policemen  may  do  to  you,  never  to  strike  them.  It's 
no  use.  They  have  the  law  on  their  side,  and  in  Italy 
they  put  thumb-screws  on  you.  If  the  man  is  small,  you 
might  shove  him  over  the  edge  of  the  platform  just  as  a 
train  was  coming  up;  but  in  ordinary  circumstances  the 
most  you  should  do  is  to  threaten  to  write  to  the  Times. 
If  you  say  "  Teems  "  they  will  understand  you.  Never 
offer  a  cigar  to  a  stranger  till  you  find  out  he  is  not  English. 
He  might  be  English,  and  discover  the  cigar  was  bad,  and 
be  angry.  A  foreigner  would  not.  You  can  easily  find 
out  the  nationality  of  a  stranger  by  addressing  a  few  ques- 
tions to  him.  If  you  think  he  is  Spanish,  say  "  Como  esta, 
LuieT'  to  him ;  if  Italian,  "  Datemi  una  bottiglia  de  vino 
ordinario"  ;  if  French,  "  Allez-vous  ong,  does  your  mother 
know  you're  out?"  if  German,  "  He\  Vaterland?  Rhein 
wein.  Who  stole  the  clock?"  By  these  means  you  will 
make  yourself  agreeable  to  your  fellow-travellers,  who 
will  probably  pay  for  your  brandy  and  soda  at  the  next 
station.  But  I  would  recommend  you  seltzer  water  rather 
than  soda  with  foreign  brandy.  You  must  always  put 
out  j7our  cigar  before  going  into  a  cathedral.  Throwing 
bedroom  furniture  out  of  the  window  of  your  hotel  is  for- 
bidden in  France,  but  not  so  in  Italy.  If  you  happen  to 
be  in  a  theatre  in  some  parts  of  south  Germany  you  will 
find  that  foreigners  are  not  allowed  to  hit  the  actresses 
with  oranges;  that  privilege  is  confined  to  the  natives. 

272 


LOVE    OF    FAMILY 

Nor  should  you  on  any  occasion  fling  a  lemonade-bottle 
at  an  actor.  You  can  send  the  present  to  his  private  ad- 
dress. Bearing  these  counsels  well  in  mind,  you  will  get 
through  your  journey  in  comparative  quiet.  You  can  let 
out  your  pent-up  spirits  when  you  return  to  England. 

Your  affectionate  uncle, 

William  Black. 

It  has  already  been  stated  that  when  Black  re- 
moved from  London  to  Brighton  he  had  three  chil- 
dren— Mabel,  Norman,  and  Violet.  It  does  not 
lie  within  the  scope  of  this  brief  memoir  to  enter 
into  the  details  of  his  domestic  life,  but  something 
may  be  said  here  of  the  devoted  love  which  he  bore 
for  those  of  his  own  household.  At  Paston  House 
he  was  not  merely  the  husband  and  the  father,  but 
the  hero  and  the  friend,  the  very  light  upon  the 
hearthstone.  He  had  always  found  pleasure  in 
making  other  people  happy,  and  there  are  hundreds 
who  can  bear  testimony  to  the  generous  amplitude 
of  his  hospitality.  But,  above  and  before  anything 
else,  it  was  his  wish  to  bring  the  joy  of  his  life  into 
his  own  family  circle.  There  were  no  lines  of 
Burns 's  which  he  admired  more  truly  than  those 
in  which  the  poet  has  explained  wherein  consists 
"the  true  pathos  and  sublime  of  human  life." 
Black's  wife  was  something  more  than  the  daily 
companion  and  fireside  friend.  She  was  not  only 
the  cherished  confidante  to  whom  he  told  every- 
thing with  regard  to  his  own  affairs,  but  the  critic 
to  whom  he  submitted  everything  that  he  wrote 
as  it  came  fresh  from  his  brain,  and  to  whose  judg- 
ment he  w^as  always  ready  to  submit.     Every  day, 

18  273 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

when  he  had  finished  his  task  of  writing,  he  brought 
the  few  closely  written  pages  that  represented  the 
day's  work  to  the  drawing-room,  and  placed  them 
in  his  wife's  hands.  He  would  sit  silent  and  almost 
nervous  until  she  had  read  what  he  had  written, 
and  then  receive  her  words  of  sympathy  and  en- 
couragement with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  satisfaction. 
From  first  to  last,  no  jarring  chord  was  ever  struck 
in  the  intercourse  between  husband  and  wife;  and 
it  is  right  that  the  world  should  know  that  his 
domestic  happiness  was  absolutely  without  alloy. 
For  him,  at  least,  there  was  nothing  real  in  the 
threadbare  sneer  at  the  wives  of  men  of  genius. 

As  for  the  children,  amid  all  his  other  engage- 
ments the  father  delighted  in  them  to  an  extent  to 
which  words  can  do  but  scanty  justice.  He  had 
a  real  love  for  all  children,  and  was  singularly 
fond  of  playing  with  them  and  teasing  them  in  the 
fashion  in  which  childhood  delights.  But  it  was 
for  his  own  children,  naturally  enough,  that  he 
had  the  tenderest  heart,  the  fullest  sympathy.  On 
the  days  when  he  was  not  absorbed  in  work  he  de- 
lighted to  share  in  their  games,  inventing  special 
pastimes  for  their  amusement,  or  making  them  ac- 
company him  in  his  walks  and  entertaining  them 
with  the  unreserved  talk  of  a  man  who  is  not  afraid 
to  make  his  heart  known  to  a  child.  When  White 
Wings  appeared,  it  was  prefaced  by  one  of  his  rare 
dedications,  which  ran  as  follows:  "To  our  Queen 
Mabs,  in  memory  of  her  first  cruise  on  board  any 
yacht,  this  record  of  our  long  summer  idleness  in 
1878  is  most  respectfully  dedicated  by  her  obliged 

274 


FAMILY    HOLIDAYS 

and  humble  servant,  the  author."  Something  of 
the  atmosphere  of  the  home  at  Paston  House  may 
be  caught  from  these  words.  It  was  a  home  in 
which  a  peculiar  intimacy  prevailed  between  the 
head  and  the  other  inmates.  The  children  were 
always  encouraged,  even  when  very  young,  to 
speak  their  thoughts  freely  to  their  parents,  and 
Black  would  take  as  much  pains  in  explaining  or 
discussing  any  question  that  might  be  raised  by 
one  of  his  young  daughters,  not  yet  come  to  her 
teens,  as  if  he  were  dealing  with  one  of  his  wisest 
and  most  valued  friends.  As  they  grew  up,  he  made 
it  his  business  to  instruct  them  in  those  healthy 
sports  of  which  he  was  himself  so  fond.  His  yearly 
autumn  holidays  were  always  spent  with  his  wife 
and  them.  More  than  once  he  took  them  for  long 
cruises  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  at  such  times 
the  well-known  novelist  and  man  of  letters  retired 
into  the  background.  His  young  daughters  plaj^ed 
the  most  prominent  part  among  the  ship's  com- 
pany— to  the  father's  unfeigned  delight.  It  had  long 
been  his  habit  to  write  every  day  to  his  wife  when 
he  was  from  home,  and  presently  he  treated  any 
child  who  was  absent  in  the  same  way.  Day  by 
day  they  received  a  brief  note  in  which  the  news 
of  the  hour  was  told,  and  every  note  breathed  un- 
obtrusively the  spirit  of  a  father's  love.  It  was  a 
rule  in  the  family  that  all  letters  passing  between 
its  members  should  be  destroyed,  and  for  this  rea- 
son I  am  only  able  to  print  one  specimen  of  a  letter 
from  Black  to  one  of  his  children.  Although  it  is 
hardly  in  chronological  order,  I  shall  print  it  here, 

275 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

at  the  close  of  this  brief  reference  to  a  side  of  Black's 
life  with  which  the  public  has  no  concern,  but  some 
mention  of  which  was  necessary  to  a  full  under- 
standing of  his  character: 

To  Miss  Mable  Black. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

December  I2th. 
MY  DEAREST  MABS,— We  are  all  delighted  to  hear  of 
your  junketings.  In  this  remote  corner  of  the  earth  there 
is  nothing  going  on  but  gales — and  not  well-dressed  gales 
either.  I  am  just  finishing  up  the  history  of  the  creature 
called  Wild  Eelin  —  and  omelettes  are  not  made  without 
breaking  of  eggs,  as  you  may  have  heard.  The  refrain 
is: 

'  Loud  winds,  low  winds,  to  every  maid  her  lover ; 
Where'er   the   sunlight   shines,    where'er   the    shadows 

hover ; 
But  my  dear  love,  my  one  love,  comes  never  back  to  me, 
Nor  by  the  shore,  nor  by  the  hills,  nor  by  the  Northern 

sea." 

She  bursts  out  crying  while  she  sings  this  pathetic  ditty, 
and  then  she  goes  and  marries  the  other  fellow. 

In  haste  to  catch  the  Sunday  post.  Remember,  all 
news  is  welcome.  My  love  to  Chiggie,  who  is  so  kindly 
in  sending  us  post-cards. 

Your  affectionate 

Papa. 

Chiggie  was  the  pet  name  of  the  lady  who  was 
the  governess  of  Black's  children  in  their  j^outh, 
and  their  friend  and  companion  in  after-life. 

It  was  in  1883  that  Black  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Miss  Mary  Anderson,  the  American  actress.   Very 

276 


MISS     ANDERSON 

soon  he  and  Mrs.  Black  found  that  they  had  met 
with  a  congenial  spirit,  and  the  friendship  between 
them  and  Miss  Anderson  became  warm  and  inti- 
mate. At  Paston  House  Miss  Anderson  became  a 
frequent  guest,  the  whole  family — children  included 
— treating  her  as  a  member  of  the  household.  She 
visited  them  more  than  once  during  their  summer 
residences  in  the  Highlands,  and  a  constant  corre- 
spondence between  her  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Black  was 
maintained.  This  friendship,  which  was  continued 
unbroken  to  the  time  of  Black's  last  illness,  brought 
him  into  contact  with  another  side  of  life — that  of 
the  stage — and  furnished  him  with  new  scenes  and 
ideals,  which  in  course  of  time  were  duly  incorpo- 
rated in  his  stories.  It  need  hardly  be  said  that 
Miss  Anderson's  American  birth  tended  to  increase 
rather  than  to  lessen  Black's  interest  in  his  wide 
circle  of  American  friends.  It  was  through  Mr. 
E.  A.  Abbey  that  Black  was  first  introduced  to  Miss 
Anderson.  She  saw  him  in  the  light  in  which  he 
was  usually  seen  by  strangers — that  of  a  silent, 
retiring,  but  quietly  observant  man.  Like  others, 
she  discovered  that  it  was  not  altogether  easy  to 
become  acquainted  with  the  real  man,  but,  when  she 
did  so  at  last,  she  found  how  much  of  the  nature  of  a 
boy  he  still  retained,  and  how,  in  his  moments  of  leis- 
ure and  relaxation,  his  Celtic  exuberance  of  spirits 
asserted  itself.  She  was  quickly  drawn  into  the  cur- 
rent of  the  innocent  home-life  at  Paston  House,  and, 
more  fully  than  most  persons,  she  was  permitted 
to  share  in  the  bright  diversions,  sometimes  carried 
to  extreme  lengths,  in   which  Black  was  wont  to 

277 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

find  relief  from  the  pressure  of  his  work  as  an  imag- 
inative writer.  As  Miss  Anderson  has  kindly  fur- 
nished me  with  some  reminiscences  of  her  friendship 
with  Black  which  throw  light  upon  this  side  of  his 
character,  I  shall  venture  to  draw  upon  them  here. 
At  Paston  House  his  favorite  game  was  "dumb 
crambo/'  and  there  was  no  limit  to  the  extrava- 
gant enthusiasm  with  which  he  played  it.  If,  when 
he  was  at  work,  he  was  the  severe,  absorbed,  silent 
man  whom  everybody  knew,  when  he  was  at  play 
he  became  a  thorough  boy,  and  found  his  chief  pleas- 
ure in  the  companionship  of  those  who,  like  himself, 
could  cast  aside  the  cares  of  life,  and  indulge  in  un- 
restrained, though  harmless,  merriment.  At  such 
times  he  was  very  fond  of  practical  jokes,  carefully 
confining  them,  however,  to  those  whose  equanim- 
ity he  knew  would  not  be  disturbed  by  them.  On 
one  occasion,  when  he  and  Mrs.  Black  were  to  sup 
with  Miss  Anderson  in  her  room  at  the  Lyceum, 
he  got  access  beforehand  to  the  supper-room,  famous 
as  the  meeting-place  of  the  old  Beefsteak  Club,  and 
pasted  over  the  labels  of  the  champagne  bottles  a 
paper  bearing  in  large  letters  the  one  word  "  Poison. " 
It  happened,  rather  unfortunately  on  this  occasion, 
that,  unknown  to  Black,  Miss  Anderson  was  enter- 
taining a  number  of  guests  with  whom  she  was  but 
slightly  acquainted,  so  that  the  joke  turned  out  to 
be  somewhat  embarrassing.  It  must  have  given 
the  strangers  who  knew  Black  only  by  repute  some- 
thing of  a  shock  to  discover  how  very  human  and 
how  very  boyish  he  was  under  his  cold  outward 
demeanor. 

278 


A    MAD     PRANK 

It  was  in  the  Buckingham  Street  rooms,  where 
Black's  friends  passed  so  many  happy  hours,  that 
another  mad  prank  was  played  which  might  have 
had  unpleasant  consequences.  He  and  Mrs.  Black 
were  entertaining  a  large  number  of  intimate  friends 
to  dinner,  including  Miss  Anderson,  Pettie,  Colin 
Hunter,  E.  A.  Abbey,  and  others.  After  dinner 
Black  expressed  a  great  desire  to  have  some  singing 
— for  he  never  lost  his  love  for  music,  and  for  German 
songs  in  particular,  especially  those  accompanied 
by  a  lusty  chorus.  Unfortunately,  there  was  no 
piano  in  his  rooms.  He  had  changed  shortly  before 
from  one  set  of  chambers  on  the  top  floor  in  Buck- 
ingham Street  to  the  adjoining  set,  and  it  occurred 
to  him  that  he  had  heard  his  successor  in  the  old 
rooms,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  not  yet  made, 
playing  the  piano.  It  happened  that  one  of  the 
party  knew  this  gentleman,  and  took  upon  himself 
to  declare  that  he  would  be  only  too  glad,  if  he  were 
at  home,  to  place  his  room  at  the  disposal  of  Black 
and  his  guests.  He  was  absent,  as  it  happened; 
but  this  fact,  according  to  his  friend,  made  no  differ- 
ence. Relying  upon  this  assurance,  the  whole  com- 
pany trooped  into  the  vacant  room,  and  quickly 
filled  it  with  their  songs  and  choruses.  In  the  middle 
of  their  merriment  the  owner  of  the  chamber  returned 
unexpectedly,  and  seemed  to  be  almost  as  much 
stupefied  by  the  spectacle  which  presented  itself  to 
his  astonished  eyes  as  the  intruders  were  by  his 
appearance.  His  friend,  who  had  lured  the  others 
into  the  room,  was  so  convulsed  with  laughter  that 
he  could  not  speak.     For  a  moment  Black  was  dumb, 

279 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

but  when  he  had  recovered  from  the  shock  he  saluted 
his  neighbor  as  cordially  as  though  he  had  known 
him  for  years,  and  proceeded  solemnly  to  introduce 
his  guests  to  him.  "  This  is  Miss  Mary  Anderson ; 
this  is  Mr.  Pettie,  the  Royal  Academician,"  and  so 
on.  No  doubt  the  young  gentleman  was  a  little 
staggered  when  he  found  what  manner  of  guests 
they  were  that  he  was  unwittingly  entertaining. 
Then  Black,  having  recovered  his  self-possession, 
frankly  explained  the  liberty  that  he  had  taken, 
and  apologized  for  it.  Fortunately,  Black's  neigh- 
bor was  a  good-natured  man.  He  not  only  accepted 
the  apology  most  graciously,  but  declared  that  he 
felt  honored  by  being  allowed  to  receive  such  visitors 
in  his  room.  Peace  was  restored,  and  the  whole 
party  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  together  in  music 
and  harmony. 

Under  Miss  Anderson's  auspices  Black  made 
two  appearances  upon  the  stage,  both  of  which  were 
amusing,  though  in  different  ways.  His  first  at- 
tempt to  tread  the  boards  was  made,  as  it  happened, 
in  his  native  city  of  Glasgow,  while  he  and  Mrs. 
Black  were  spending  a  week  with  Miss  Anderson 
as  her  guests.  It  was  during  this  time  that  the 
revelry  to  which  they  had  become  accustomed  in 
their  lighter  hours  ran  highest.  Miss  Anderson 
received  from  Black  the  title  of  "That  Beautiful 
Wretch/'  appropriated  from  one  of  his  own  books, 
while  he  became  known  in  the  little  party  as  "  The 
D.  D.B.  V.,"  otherwise  "The  Double -Dyed  Black 
Villain."  Chaff  of  the  most  unmerciful  kind  formed 
the  staple  of  the  talk,  and  for  some  days  the  mem- 

280 


A    NIGHT    ON     THE    STAGE 

bers  of  the  party  engaged  in  a  keen  competition 
for  the  purpose  of  determining  who  could  invent  or 
tell  the  most  outrageously  extravagant  story.  Black, 
as  might  have  been  expected  from  his  occupation, 
was  the  winner,  and  a  tiny  tin  kettle,  in  not  obscure 
allusion  to  the  well-known  story  of  the  bishop,  was 
the  prize.  Black  wore  the  tin  kettle  with  pride, 
but  later  on  Miss  Anderson  substituted  for  it  one  of 
gold,  with  the  inscription,  "To  the  D.D.B.V.,  from 
the  Wretch."  In  after -years  Black  delighted  to 
exhibit  the  kettle  to  his  friends,  and  to  excite  their 
curiosity  with  regard  to  the  meaning  of  the  mysteri- 
ous inscription. 

It  was  during  this  merry  week  of  high  spirits  and 
enjoyment  that  Black  made  his  appearance  on  the 
stage  as  a  "super" — or  "thinker,"  in  the  theatri- 
cal phrase — in  the  famous  ballroom  scene  in  "Ro- 
meo and  Juliet."  He  went  on  in  a  blue  domino 
and  mask.  According  to  Miss  Anderson,  no  more 
ignominious  first  appearance  was  ever  made.  Be- 
fore the  curtain  was  raised  Black  planted  himself 
in  a  rather  prominent  position  on  the  stage,  with 
his  back  to  a  pillar.  Here  he  remained  absolutely 
motionless  and  silent,  making  no  attempt  to  play 
his  humble  part  as  one  of  the  giddy  throng — a  veri- 
table death's-head  at  the  feast.  Miss  Anderson  and 
others  tried  to  talk  to  him,  but  he  was  incapable  of 
answering,  being  absolutely  speechless  from  stage- 
fright.  Presently  the  revellers  departed,  leaving 
the  stage  free  for  the  meeting  of  Romeo  and  Juliet. 
To  Miss  Anderson's  horror,  Black  stuck  to  his  post, 
or,  rather,  to  his  pillar,  thus  stopping  the  progress 

281 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

of  the  piece  in  the  eyes  of  a  crowded  house.  The 
fair  Juliet  walked  across  to  him  and  said  impera- 
tively, "  Go  off."  There  was  no  response.  He  had  no 
more  the  use  of  his  legs  than  of  his  tongue.  Fort- 
unately, the  situation  was  grasped  by  Miss  Ander- 
son's brother,  who  played  the  part  of  Tybalt,  and  he 
and  a  fellow-actor,  returning  to  the  stage,  succeed- 
ed by  sheer  force  in  dragging  the  paralyzed  super 
from  it.  This  true  tale  I  should  not  have  ventured 
to  tell  if  I  had  not  been  able  to  supplement  it  by  the 
equally  true  account  of  Black's  second  appearance 
as  an  actor.  This  took  place  a  year  or  two  later 
at  Dublin,  where  Miss  Anderson  was  acting.  Here 
again  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Black  were  the  guests  of  the  fa- 
mous actress,  and  the  old  jokes  and  laughter  and 
chaff  of  Glasgow  were  revived.  Needless  to  say, 
Black  had  to  submit  to  not  a  few  merciless  allusions 
to  the  part  he  had  played  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet." 
He  vowed  that  they  should  see  that  he  was  not  un- 
equal to  the  task  of  taking  a  "  thinker's  "  part  upon 
the  stage.  Miss  Anderson  was  playing  in  "  The  Win- 
ter's Tale,"  and  Black  insisted  upon  assuming  the 
part  of  one  of  the  supers,  who  was  dressed  as  a  very 
old  man,  with  a  venerable  beard,  and  locks  that  fell 
upon  his  shoulders.  A  portrait  of  Black  in  this 
character  has  been  preserved,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  recognize  in  the  photograph  the  well-known,  clear- 
cut  features  of  the  original.  When  Black  went 
upon  the  stage  in  this  disguise,  it  was  evident  to  his 
friends  that  he  had  recovered  only  too  completely 
from  the  paralysis  of  stage  -  fright.  His  nervous- 
ness now  manifested  itself  in  excessive  motion  and 

282 


LAST  APPEARANCE  ON  THE  STAGE 

activity.  He  walked  about  among  his  fellow-think- 
ers with  unceasing  restlessness,  and,  judging  by 
the  wild  motions  of  his  arms,  seemed  to  be  ad- 
dressing to  each  in  turn  an  impassioned  harangue. 
The  audience  began  to  wonder  who  the  new  actor 
was,  and  what  on  earth  he  was  doing  in  a  play  in 
which  neither  Shakespeare  nor  the  stage-managers, 
who  had  incurred  the  ri.sk  of  disaster  by  their  de- 
votion to  the  legitimate  drama,  ever  intended  him 
to  appear.  Presently  came  the  time  when  it  was 
the  business  of  Perdita  to  distribute  flowers  among 
the  peasants,  among  whom  Black  had  his  place. 
Miss  Anderson,  carrying  on  the  practical  jokes  of 
the  family  circle,  had  prepared  a  surprise  for  this 
moment,  and  having  distributed  flowers  among 
the  less-favored  "thinkers,"  she  handed  to  Black 
a  large  cake,  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  laurel,  say- 
ing as  she  did  so,  "You  take  it,"  in  allusion  to  his 
triumphs  in  the  contest  of  wits  at  the  supper-table. 
To  her  consternation,  Black  showed  that  he  was 
quite  prepared  to  carry  out  the  jest,  for,  taking  the 
cake  from  the  hands  of  Perdita,  he  immediately  dis- 
tributed it  in  substantial  portions  to  his  hungry 
fellow-thinkers,  who,  finding  it  to  be  of  excellent 
quality,  began  to  munch  it  greedily  under  the  eyes 
of  the  house.  This  was  Black's  last  appearance 
upon  the  stage,  and  to  his  friends  there  is  some- 
thing intensely  characteristic  of  the  man  in  the 
contrast  between  his  two  performances. 

I  have  said  enough  to  indicate  Black's  attitude 
towards  the  famous  actress.  Each  was  bon  gar- 
gon  to  the  other,  and  Black  greatly  relished  his  en- 

283 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

counters  of  wit  and  fun  with  one  whose  talents  were 
so  distinctly  above  the  average,  and  who  shared 
so  largely  in  the  boyish  temperament  of  his  lighter 
moods.  Having  stated  the  character  of  the  friend- 
ship which  united  Miss  Anderson  to  the  family  at 
Paston  House,  I  venture  to  print  some  of  Black's 
letters  to  the  lady,  without  any  particular  regard 
to  their  chronological  order.  Chronological  order,  in- 
deed, is  out  of  the  question,  owing  to  Black's  incur- 
able propensity  for  leaving  his  letters  undated. 

To  Miss  Anderson. 

Altnaharra,  N.  B., 

January  1 6,  1884. 

DEAR  MISS  ANDERSON,— Along  with  this  there  should 
reach  you  a  Scotch  salmon,  the  only  creature  of  its  kind 
likely  to  be  in  London  at  the  same  moment.  I  think  Mr. 
Abbey  and  myself  should  apologize  to  you  for  sending 
such  a  thing,  for  young  ladies'  presents  should  be  pretty 
and  nice,  such  as  scent- baskets,  bouquets,  volumes  of 
poetry,  and  the  like ;  but  the  fact  is  that  this  finny  and 
scaly  animal  is  somewhat  remarkable,  as  it  is  the  first 
that  has  been  caught  in  any  Scotch  loch  this  year,  and  also 
it  is  the  first  salmon  Mr.  Abbey  has  caught  anywhere. 

Accordingly  there  is  much  rejoicing  in  the  inn  among 
the  gillies  and  keepers,  etc.,  etc.,  and  if  Mr.  Abbey  doesn't 
show  them  how  to  do  the  cake-walk  to-morrow  evening, 
when  they  are  going  to  have  a  small  and  early  dance, 
it  will  be  a  most  ungenerous  return  for  all  their  sympathy 
and  congratulations.  But  why  should  I  bother  you,  amid 
all  your  arduous  and  delightful  labors,  with  the  experiences 
of  two  maniacs  who  have  adventured  into  the  north  High- 
lands in  midwinter?  I  hope  the  actual  presence  of  the 
salmon  will  convince  you,  at  least,  that  we  don't  tell  lies ; 

284 


THE    WEAVER'S    DISCONTENT 

and  with  kindest  regards  (in  which  Mr.  Abbey  would, 
no  doubt,  be  most  glad  to  join  only  that  he  is  half  asleep 
in  a  novel  before  a  peat-fire), 

Believe  me, 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Altnaharra, 

March  iSth. 
My  dear  Miss  ANDERSON,— I  send  you  a  small  (fam- 
ily consumption)  salmon,  that  should  reach  you  just  about 
the  same  time  as  you  get  this.  But  do  you  think  that  I 
am  going  to  send  you  the  long  letter  I  promised  you,  ex- 
plaining why  you  should  follow  the  advice  I  gave  you? 
No,  I  won't.  I  withdraw  that  advice  altogether,  even  at 
the  cost  of  the  world's  losing  the  poet  who  would  be  created 
by  your  jilting  him.  And  the  reason  is  that  you  might 
go  too  far  and  spoil  the  whole  thing.  In  short,  you  might 
not  jilt  him.  That  would  be  fatal.  After  all,  what  is  the 
use  of  experiments?  You  ought  to  be  fairly  well  content 
as  you  are.  Suppose  the  fairy  godmother  to  say :  "  You 
shall  at  one  and  the  same  time  be  young,  beautiful,  and 
famous,  in  good  health  and  spirits,  have  a  head  too  cool 
to  let  you  be  spoiled  by  flattery  ;  and  before  you  an  endless 
possibility  of  successes  in  an  art  of  which  you  are  pas- 
sionately fond."  Should  the  human  being  ask  for  more? 
There  was  once  a  Scotch  weaver  whose  wile  said  to  him : 
"  You  were  drunk  on  Monday  night,  you  were  drunk  on 
Tuesday  and  Wednesday  nights,  and  now  you  are  drunk 
again.  Four  nights  in  the  week  drunk,  and  still  you're 
grumbling.  What  more  would  you  like?  Would  you  like 
to  be  an  angel?"  So  don't  you  make  any  experiments 
in  the  way  of  acquiring  remorse,  and  let  the  uncreated 
poet  go.  I  will  send  you  a  sketch  tour  for  Scotland  as 
soon  as  I  can  get  a  map  to  mark  with  red  ink ;  but  as 

285 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

regards  Italy,  you  won't  need  any  such  thing.  Take  as 
much  time  as  you  can  in  Venice ;  don't  eat  oysters  at 
Naples ;  wrap  up  well  if  you  go  to  the  Coliseum  at  night, 
and  don't  drink  water  in  hotels  anywhere.  These  precepts, 
dearly  beloved  brethren  —  but  I  am  forgetting  altogether, 
and  it's  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  they're  howling 
at  me  to  come  away  and  pursue  more  salmon. 
Kind  regards  to  all  your  home  circle,  from 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Altnaharra, 

March  2$d. 
DEAR  MISS  ANDERSON, — I  am  exceedingly  sorry  to 
hear  you  have  been  ailing ;  but  it  is  scarcely  to  be  won- 
dered at,  seeing  that  you  are  in  two  pieces  every  night, 
and  one  of  them  with  such  a  concentrated  tear  and  wear 
as  Clarisse.  However,  you  will  soon  get  free,  and  the  quiet 
of  a  gondola  in  Venice — on  a  moonlight  night — will  do 
more  good  to  your  brain  than  any  Scotch  salmon.  By-the- 
way,  go  to  Danieli's  hotel.  There  is  a  little  Desdemona 
about  at  times ;  but  so  there  is  everywhere,  and  it  is  not 

half  as  bad  at  Danieli's  as  at  the Hotel,  where  the 

hapless  young  person  is  said  to  have  been  buried.  Alas 
and  alack!  I'm  afraid  I  can't  come  to  your  supper-party, 
for  I  am,  in  a  measure,  host  here,  and  couldn't  well  leave 
the  poor  creatures  who  have  ventured  into  Sutherlandshire 
in  the  winter.  But  I  hope  you'll  have  a  real  good  time, 
and  if  somebody  doesn't  propose  your  health,  why  then — 
then — then — but  I  mustn't  use  strong  language.  They've 
gone  and  burned  Paston  House — at  least,  they've  burned 
the  roof  off.  It  was  a  shabby  trick  to  play  the  moment 
I  had  turned  my  back ;  but,  fortunately,  my  wife  and 
the  bairns  were  with  my  sister  in  Surrey,  and  escaped 
the  fright.     And  if  anybody  thinks  that  any  such  two- 

286 


ILLNESS  AT  PASTON  HOUSE 

penny-halfpenny  conflagration  is  going  to  draw  me  away 

from  salmon-fishing,  he  doesn't  in  the  least  know  what 

kind  of  a  hairpin  I  am.     They  can  go  on  burning  if  they 

like.  Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

Paston  House, 

November  16th. 
DEAR  WRETCH,— It's  little  you  deserve  that  I  should 
be  writing  to  you  at  this  minute ;  for  not  one  scrap  of  your 
pen  have  I  received  since  the  month  of  August  last.  How- 
ever, you  always  were  a  wretch,  and  you  always  will  be, 
and  you  can't  help  it;  and,  besides,  my  wife  asks  me  to 
explain  to  you  why  she  can't  write  to  you  just  now.  She 
is  a  prisoner  with  Mabs  and  Norman,  amusing  themselves 
with  a  dose  of  scarlatina ;  but  they  are  going  on  all  right, 
and  after  the  proper  period  of  probation  she  will  be  re- 
stored to  her  liberty  again  (as  much  of  it  as  we  have  got 
in  this  wretched  old  country).  I  wonder  how  it  is  that  the 
correspondence   of   American   young   ladies   always  goes 

astray.     Miss was  down  here  a  little  while  ago.     She 

wrote  to  us  suggesting  a  meeting.  Of  course,  my  wife 
couldn't  go ;  and  I  was  too  timid  and  shy  to  brave  the  in- 
terview by  myself,  and  so  I  sent  her  a  note  saying  that 
there  was  illness  in  the  house,  which  note  I  sent  to  the 
address  she  gave  me.  Ten  days  thereafter  it  was  returned 
through  the  dead-letter  office;  and  though  I  subsequently 
got  it  forwarded  through  a  friend,  during  that  time  she 
must  have  considered  us  guilty  of  the  discourtesy  of  not 
even  answering  her  invitation.  You're  a  queer  lot  of  people, 
you  are.  Mr.  Pettie  writes  me  this  morning  that  he  sent  a 
photograph  to  Joe  [Miss  Anderson's  brother]  to  the  address 
that  he  gave  and  that  that  was  returned,  as  he  had  gone 
away.  I  have  now  asked  him  to  send  it  to  the  Clarendon 
Hotel,  New  York ;  but  by  the  time  it  gets  there  it  will  be 
"  gone  away  "  again.  .  .  .  THE  D.  D.  B.  V. 

287 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

To  the  same.  _  TT  „ 

Paston  House,  Brighton. 

Dearly  -  beloved  Pupil,— I  will  now  resume  my 
little  lecture  to  you  on  that  interesting  subject,  the  weather. 
To-day  we  have  just  about  as  much  weather  as  we  had 
yesterday ;  and  usually  there  is  about  the  same  quantity. 
The  weather  may  be  either  good  or  bad  ;  when  it  is  wretched, 
strange  to  say,  it  calls  forth  no  commiseration;  nay,  its 
extreme  wretchedness  provokes  hatred  rather  than  sym- 
pathy.    Marcus  Aurelius  has  remarked  that  those  persons 
are  best  guarded  against  the  weather  who  have  paid  their 
debts,  especially  their  debts  of  honor.     In  very  bad  weather 
the  gloves  I  usually  wear  are  seven  and  a  half  in  size, 
of  a  delicate  saffron   hue,  with   three  bands  in  black  or 
gold  on  the  back.     With  such  gloves  you  are  tolerably 
proof  against  any  climate ;  but  should  the  weather  affect 
your  sciatic  nerve,  then  you  should  take  a  little  trip,  the 
best  line  being  the  Massageries  Imperiales.     The  weather 
around  the  pole  is  extremely  frigid ;  so  cold,  indeed,  that 
you  can  hardly  polar-bear  it ;  but  it  is  sultry  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Edinburgh,  especially  about  the  beginning  of 
May,  when  the  warmth  will  even  cause  you  to  see  things 
as  through  a  faintly  crimson  atmosphere  (this  was  observed 
by  Sigismondus  Tellurius,  in  the  year  1 183).     In  weather 
which  is  neither  hot  nor  cold,  a  pair  of  gloves  will  some- 
times have  a  salutary  effect  upon  the  eyes.     In  no  kind  of 
weather  whatever  should  you  bet  about  Van  der  Weyde's 
electric  light ;  this  is  one  of  the  axioms  of  Confucius,  who 
perceived  the  wisdom  of  it  at  an  early  age.     There  is  no 
more  at  present,  my  interesting  and  innocent  young  pupil, 
to  tell  you  about  the  weather.  .  .  .  THE  D.  D.  B.  V. 

To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 
October  6,  1885. 
MY  DEAR  REID, — I  must  write  and  thank  you  for  your 
great  kindness  to  Mary  Anderson  and  her  brother.  .  .  . 

288 


AN     IMAGINATIVE     REPORTER 

We  had  a  high  old  time  in  Glasgow,  as  M.  A.'s  guests. 
I  went  on  the  stage  one  night  in  a  blue  domino,  Lady 
Capulet's  ball;  and  the  fair  Lady  Juliet  came  along  and 
talked  to  the  humble  super  in  the  background;  yea,  and 
made  merry  with  him  when  the  Capulets  and  Montagues 
were  squabbling  among  themselves.  We  had  some  gay 
evenings  at  the  Central  Station  Hotel.  When  are  you 
coming  up  to  town?  The  Reformers  are  back  in  their 
own  "  howf  "  again. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black.   - 

The  following  letter  to  Mr.  Joseph  Anderson 
shows  that  Black  was  still  the  victim  of  the  imagina- 
tive journalists  who  had  pursued  him  so  relentlessly 
in  the  days  of  his  early  popularity : 

To  Joseph  Anderson. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

February  26,  1886. 

DEAR  JOE, — I  enclose  for  your  edification  an  interesting 
specimen  of  journalism  which  somebody  sends  me  from 
the  Detroit  Free  Press.  I  haven't  counted  the  sentences, 
but  each  one  contains  a— (whish!).  I  never  saw  this 
man ;  never  was  at  any  ball  in  the  island  of  Lewis ;  never 
was  a  reporter  for  the  Manchester  Guardian,  or  for  any- 
thing else;  never  saw  the  adorable  Miss  Mackenzie,  nor 
even  heard  of  such  a  person's  existence.  The  forty-pound 
salmon  shrinks  into  insignificance  beside  this.  ...  I  had 
a  letter  this  morning  from  the  wife  of  an  editor  in  St. 
Louis,  asking  me  {apropos  of  nothing)  to  send  her  a  bit  of 
one  of  my  neckties.  Is  this  a  common  form  of  keepsake  in 
America?  If  it  is,  it  is  very  curious,  for  it  is  the  survival 
of  a  very,  very  old  Scotch  custom. 
.9  289 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

"  0,  dinna  ye  mind,  love  Gregory, 
When  we  sate  at  the  wine, 
How  we  changed  the  napkins  frae  our  necks? 
It's  no  sae  lang  sin  syne." 

Let  me  know  how  you  are  all  getting  on. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

The  story  from  the  Detroit  newspaper,  to  which 
Black  gave  so  emphatic  a  contradiction,  was  as 
follows : 

There  died  in  New  York  last  week  one  of  the  hard- 
working toilers  of  the  press,  whose  life  was  probably  as 
full  of  strange  incidents  as  any  novelist  could  have  made 
it.  His  name  was  John  Campbell,  and  if  any  writer  of 
fiction  desires  material  for  a  startling  novel  he  should 
follow  Campbell's  life,  and  become  a  "  headquarters " 
reporter  for  a  New  York  paper.  It  may  be  of  interest  to 
know  that  to  this  humble  reporter  on  a  daily  newspaper 
the  public  is  in  part  indebted  for  William  Black's  charm- 
ing novel,  A  Princess  of  Tlmle.  Campbell  was  by  birth 
a  Manxman.  "  I  was  spending  some  time  on  the  isle  of 
Lewis,"  he  said  in  conversation  once,  "  and  Black,  who 
was  then  a  reporter  on  the  Manchester  Guardian,  had  been 
putting  in  some  time  at  the  same  place.  I  had  been  thrown 
in  his  company  a  great  deal,  and  we  got  to  know  each 
other  pretty  well.  Suddenly,  towards  the  end  of  the  week, 
Black  told  me  he  was  going  home,  and  in  order  to  induce 
him  to  stay  I  told  him  that  there  was  going  to  be  a  ball 
at  the  principal  inn  in  the  town  on  Saturday  night,  and 
that  if  he  wanted  to  learn  something  of  the  character  of 
Lewis  people  he  ought  to  stay  and  see  it.  He  did  so. 
There  was  a  great  gathering  of  young  people,  but  the 
innkeeper's  daughter,  Miss  Mackenzie,  was  the  prettiest 

290 


A    FARRAGO    OF    FALSEHOOD 

of  them  all.  Black  met  her,  and  became  very  much  at- 
tached to  her.  The  island  seemed  to  obtain  a  new  interest 
in  his  mind,  and  he  remained  for  several  days.  He  pre- 
served in  his  book  Miss  Mackenzie  as  Sheila,  the  Princess 
of  Thule,  and  her  father  as  the  old  King  of  Lewis.  I  am 
glad  to  say  that  they  are  faithful  representations  of  two 
very  charming  people." 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Mr.  John  Campbell,  the 
headquarters  reporter  of  New  York,  was  not  really 
responsible  for  this  farrago  of  falsehood.  The 
reader  already  knows  how  Black  went  to  the  island 
of  Lewis  for  the  special  purpose  of  studying  the 
scenery  in  which  he  proposed  to  lay  the  opening 
chapters  of  a  story  the  heroine  of  which  he  had  al- 
ready realized  in  his  owTn  mind  before  ever  he  landed 
on  the  island.  It  was  annoying  to  him  to  be  tracked 
by  these  persistent  and  ridiculous  inventions  about 
innkeepers  and  their  pretty  daughters ;  but  he  must, 
I  think,  have  found  some  consolation  under  the 
persecution  in  the  thought  that  these  determined 
attempts  to  discover  originals  for  the  ever-delightful 
Princess  furnished  in  themselves  strong  proof  of 
the  fascination  which  she  exercised  over  the  minds 
of  readers  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

Mr.  Bret  Harte  to  William  Black. 

Glasgow, 

March  15,  1885. 
MY  DEAR  BLACK,— I  was  in  the  far  south,  trying  to 
get  rid  of  an  obstinate  cold,  when  your  note  reached  me, 
and  haven't  been  in  London  for,  some  time.  I  expected 
you  to  drop  in  here  on  your  way  up  "to  Balnagownie's 
arms  "—whoever  she  may  be.     I'm  afraid  I  don't  want  any 

291 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

"  Ardgay  "  in  mine,  thank  you.  Why  any  man  in  this 
damp  climate  should  want  to  make  himself  wetter  by  salm- 
on-fishing passes  my  comprehension.  Is  there  no  drier  spot 
to  be  had  in  all  Great  Britain?  I  shudder  at  the  name  of  a 
river,  and  shiver  at  the  sight  of  any  fish  that  isn't  dried. 
I  hear,  too,  that  you  are  in  the  habit  of  making  poetry  on 
these  occasions,  and  that  you  are  dropping  fines  all  over 
the  place.  How  far  is  that  place — anyway?  I  shall  be 
in  Glasgow  until  the  end  of  March,  and  if  you'll  dry  yourself 
thoroughly  and  come  in  and  dine  with  me  at  that  time, 
I'll  show  you  how  "  the  laboring  poor  "  of  Glasgow  live. 

Yours  always, 

Bret  Harte. 

It  was  in  1885,  when  on  his  way  to  Scotland  to 
spend  the  summer  at  Oban,  that  the  idea  occurred 
to  Black  of  reviving  the  scheme  of  The  Phaeton 
by  writing  a  tale  dealing  with  the  Strange  Advent- 
ures of  a  party  of  friends  embarked  on  a  house-boat. 
It  was  the  sight  of  the  canal-boats  on  the  London 
and  Liverpool  Canal,  which  he  saw  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  express  train  as  he  was  carried  north- 
ward, that  put  the  idea  into  his  mind.  His  wife 
remembers  how,  after  sitting  for  a  long  time  in  si- 
lence, he  told  her  of  the  new  scheme  which  he  had 
conceived.  The  house-boat  journey  was  a  real  one ; 
but,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Strange  Adventures  of 
a  Phaeton,  the  company  which  actually  made  the 
expedition  was  not  that  described  in  the  pages  of 
the  story.  Black's  companions  were  Mr.  Alfred 
Parsons  and  his  American  friend  Mr.  Bowker.  In 
the  novel,  the  old  familiar  figures  of  Queen  Tita  and 
her  husband  reappear,  and  there  is  no  doubt  that 

292 


AN    INLAND    VOYAGE 

the  original  of  the  heroine — altered  and  idealized, 
according  to  his  wont — was  Miss  Anderson. 

Mr.  Bowker  has  favored  me  with  some  account 
of  this  inland  voyage: 

"  It  was  my  own  good  fortune,"  he  says,  "  to  be  Black's 
companion  in  the  journey  which  furnished  material  for 
The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  House-boat,  in  May  and  June, 
1886.  Our  craft  was  not  the  white  vision  of  the  story,  but 
a  very  modest  house  -  boat,  which,  after  much  searching 
like  that  of  Jack  Dunscombe,  Black  had  bought  from  a 
nautical  seedsman  who  had  built  on  the  hull  of  an  old 
whale-boat,  twenty-one  feet  long,  the  upper  works  of  a 
house-boat.  The  craft  was  not  '  a  nameless  barge,'  but 
a  barge  of  many  names,  for  on  her  bow  the  name  Daisy 
was  painted ;  the  life-preservers  for  use  on  the  raging  canal 
bore  the  name  Walerfly ;  we  called  her  The  Waterbug,  and 
the  jeering  populace  of  the  tow-path  dubbed  her  Noah's 
Ark.  The  little  cabin,  about  fifteen  feet  by  six,  was, 
however,  much  as  Black  described  it  in  the  story,  with  its 
red  Utrecht  velvet  cushions,  its  sconces,  and  its  hurricane- 
deck  overhead,  our  joy  and  delight  in  fine  weather,  except 
when  the  exigencies  of  '  low  bridge  '  required  us  to  go 
below.  This  cabin  roof  was  partly  supported  by  an  up- 
right post,  on  which  there  shifted  up  and  down  a  circular 
affair  which  served  as  a  dining-table  by  day  and  as  a  part 
of  our  bunks  by  night.  It  could  be  got  out  of  the  way 
altogether  by  hitching  it  aloft.  Our  real  start  was  from 
Stratford -on -Avon.  Abbey  and  Millet  had  come  over 
from  their  favorite  Broadway  to  see  us  off,  and  there  was 
a  scene  of  wild  hilarity,  not  surpassed  by  any  of  the  doings 
on  the  house-boat  of  fiction.  The  first  night  out  we  moored 
in  the  forest  of  Arden,  as  described  in  the  book,  and  it 
took  most  of  the  evening,  I  remember,  to  discover  or  invent 
a  method  by  which  the  dining-table,  the  red  Utrecht  velvet 

293 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

cushions.,  and  other  appurtenances  could  be  combined  into 
beds  which  did  not  within  two  minutes  dump  us  upon  the 
floor.  Most  of  the  incidents  described  in  the  book — the 
weird  haul  through  the  tunnel,  the  looking  down -hill, 
the  start  in  the  wonderful  dawn  from  Sharpness  Basin,  the 
risky  passage  down  the  chutes  of  the  Severn,  the  adventure 
with  the  three  pirates  of  Bristol  town,  and  the  episode  near 
Devizes,  where  we  came  near  to  drowning  Alfred  Parsons 
and  his  two  sisters,  who  had  come  to  meet  us,  like  Jack 
Dunscombe's  friends — were  literally  true;  but  there  was 
no  shade  of  resemblance  in  the  dramatis  personae.  The 
young  American  heroine  was,  indeed,  a  reminiscence  in 
some  respects  of  the  charming  qualities  shown  in  her  private 
life  by  '  The  Rose  of  Kentucky/  who  was  so  great  a  fa- 
vorite in  the  Brighton  house,  and  after  whom  we  had  agreed 
the  boat  was  to  be  named  in  fiction;  but  Miss  Anderson 
never  saw  the  craft  until  years  afterwards,  when  Black 
had  given  it  to  Alfred  Parsons,  and  it  found  a  resting-place 
on  the  quiet  waters  of  the  Avon,  not  far  from  Broadway. 

"  One  of  the  most  amusing  experiences  of  that  journey 
was  not  told  in  the  book.  As  we  neared  Gloucester,  our 
skipper  had  a  violent  war  of  words  with  a  not  very  gentle- 
manly owner  of  a  steam-launch  which  nearly  ran  us  down. 
As  we  were  spending  that  evening  in  a  cose}'  corner  of  the 
inn  at  Gloucester  there  appeared  a  person  who,  addressing 
both  of  us,  introduced  himself  as  a  warm  admirer  of  '  the 
great  Scotch  novelist,'  and  with  profuse  apologies  declared 
that  he  never  would  have  acted  as  he  had  done — for  he 
was  the  owner  of  the  launch — if  he  had  known  who  was 
in  the  boat.  Black  and  I  remained  mischievously  non- 
committal as  to  who  was  who  until  our  embarrassed  friend 
wound  up  one  of  his  apologies  with  the  appeal,  '  Which- 
ever of  you  is  Mr.  Black?'  Among  my  literary  treasures 
is  a  copy  of  the  House-boat  volume,  with  the  inscription, 
'  To  the  best  of  crews,  from  the  worst  of   captains  ' ;  for 

294 


ADVICE    TO    LITERARY    ASPIRANTS 

it  was  part  of  my  duty  to  work  the  lochs  and  steer  the  boat, 
until  Black  insisted  that  I  would  ruin  his  landscapes  by 
colliding  with  the  tow-path  or  anything  that  came  handy. 
The  real  crew  consisted  of  a  skipper,  a  small  cabin-boy, 
and  a  tall  horse-marine,  who  managed  the  venerable  quad- 
ruped known  in  real  life  as  '  Whiskers/  because  of  his 
hirsute  appendages.  Black  kept  a  tiny  note-book,  an 
inch  and  a  half  square,  in  his  pocket,  in  which  he  jotted 
down  impressions  and  incidents,  while  I  gave  the  un- 
romantic  truth  in  my  letters  home.  It  was  agreed  between 
us  that  he  was  to  publish  the  fiction  and  I  the  fact,  but 
afterwards  he  humorously  objected  that  too  much  truth 
might  '  destroy  many  a  cherished  illusion  about  the  imag- 
inary folk.'  " 

In  one  of  his  letters  he  wrote  Mr.  Bowker  as  fol- 
lows: "My  literary  method,  as  far  as  describing 
these  out-door  things  goes,  is  to  represent  them  as 
vividly  as  I  can,  partly  because  I  think  that  lends 
an  additional  reality  to  the  fictitious  personages, 
but  chiefly  because  I  like  it,  and  choose  to  do  my 
book  in  my  own  way;  and  if  any  critic  tells  me  that 
I  describe  too  much  scenery,  I  tell  him  that  is  my 
business  and  not  his.  There  is  another  thing.  If 
ever  I  live  to  be  old  and  senile,  I  shall  be  able  to  re- 
call all  the  beautiful  things  I  have  seen,  because  I 
have  stuck  them  all  into  these  books  of  mine." 

In  another  letter  he  said,  speaking  of  the  literary 
aspirants  who  like  to  get  some  notion  of  the  ways 
of  working  of  different  writers :  "  With  regard  to 
myself,  I  would  not  have  them  imagine  that  I  either 
practise  or  recommend  a  description  of  scenery  as 
scenery — that  is,  trying  to  do  in  literature  what  the 
landscape-painter  does  in  art.     What  I  try  to  do  is 

295 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

to  get  at  the  very  things  the  painter  cannot  reach 
at  all — the  singing  of  birds,  the  scent  of  hedges, 
the  blowing  of  the  wind,  a  changing  of  light,  any- 
thing, indeed,  that  will  give  a  sense  of  space  and 
atmosphere  and  color  and  light  as  surrounding 
my  characters.  Of  course,  in  such  a  book  as  The 
Adventures  of  a  Phaeton  there  is  some  attention 
paid  to  passing  detail;  but  that  is  an  exception, 
and  I  wouldn't  have  these  innocent  young  folk  en- 
couraged to  attempt  to  describe  scenery  as  a  sepa- 
rate branch  of  literary  art.  For  myself,  I  don't  care 
much  for  orthodox  scenery.  What  I  care  for  are 
effects  of  light  and  color  (which  you  get  more  beau- 
tifully in  the  west  Highlands  than  in  any  other 
place  I  know),  and  I  would  sooner  see  a  rose-red 
sunrise  along  a  bit  of  icicled  road  than  all  the  Swiss 
landscapes  I  ever  beheld." 

Before  the  Adventures  of  a  House-boat  was  actu- 
ally written,  two  other  novels  —  Sabina  Zembra 
and  In  Far  Lochaber — were  published,  in  1887  and 
1888.  The  former  dealt  in  a  realistic  fashion  with 
the  passing  craze  of  society  for  East  End  slum- 
ming. The  following  letter  has  reference  to  Sa- 
bina Zembra : 

To  Norman  Lockyer. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

Sunday  Morning  (1886). 
MY  DEAR  LOCKYER, — Will  you  please  say  to  Miss 

how  sorry  I  am.      The  house  is  full  of  people,  and 

I  can't  get  up.  She  evidently  misapprehends  my  purpose. 
I  know  a  great  deal  more  of  the  East  End  than  she  can 

296 


"SABINA    ZEMBRA' 

possibly  know,  having  been  through  the  whole  business — 
crimps,  lodging  -  houses,  penny  -  gaffs,  and  the  saloons 
of  Ratcliff  Highway,  under  the  guidance  of  people  who 
have  lived  there  all  their  lives.  And  I  don't  want  to  write 
a  story  about  London  slums  (though  my  last  was  about 
the  London  docks),  nor  yet  to  write  sentimental  ballads 
for  the  Referee.  No,  sir !  What  I  want  is  to  go  some  night 
to  hear  some  young  lady  or  other  address  a  Whitechapel 
audience,  to  see  whether  that  looks  a  promising  substitute 
for  marriage,  in  a  country  where  marriage  is  becoming 
more  and  more  an  obsolete  institution.     In  great  haste, 

Yours  always, 

William  Black. 

Sabina  Zembra  was  published  simultaneously  in 
a  number  of  English  newspapers  in  1887. 

To  Miss  Anderson. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

Saturday  Morning. 
DEAR  WRETCH, — It's  quite  nice  to  see  your  handwriting 
once  again.  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  all  about  us. 
But,  please,  it's  not  me  that's  ill ;  it's  Mustrez  Blahck, 
who  has  been  these  last  few  days  in  London  in  the  doctor's 
hands.  She  comes  down  again  to-day.  I  have  only 
had  a  touch  of  what  everybody  has  been  having,  an  in- 
flammation of  the  nerves  that  got  hold  of  Parsons  by  the 
cheek,  and  Du  Maurier  by  the  fingers,  and  me  by  the  fingers 
and  toes.  But,  all  the  same,  you  should  have  seen  this 
interesting  invalid  fishing  for  salmon  in  a  snow-storm. 
Now  I  am  taking  things  easy,  getting  heaps  of  work  done, 
and  occasionally  crawling  out  to  a  morning  performance 
or  a  small  dinner-party.  .  .  .  Have  you  had  time  yet  to 
read  the  first  few  chapters  of  Sabina  Zembra?     I  had  a 

note  the  other  day  from ,  in  which  he  said  that  people 

297 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

were  saying  that  the  "  S.  Z."  of  these  opening  chapters 
was  very  like  you.     But  what  won't  they  say?    Old  Mrs. 

Proctor   wrote  to  B ,  telling   him   how  accurately  he 

was  described  in  the  same  book  as  the  artist  hero.  Now 
the  artist  hero  is  a  young  Scotch  landscape-painter  of 
twenty-eight,  exceedingly  handsome,  black-eyed,  a  skilful 

musician,  etc.,  etc.     Is  that   like   B ?     I  don't  think 

even  K would  say  so.     I  saw  two  beautiful  portraits 

of  a  young  lady  the  other  day  in  the  character  of  Rosalind. 
I  would  have  gone  into  the  shop  and  bought  them,  but 
that  the  young  lady  herself  had  conjured  me  not  to  do  so, 
saying  that  she  would  send  me  them.  I  would  write  and 
remind  her  of  her  promise  if  only  I  could  remember  her  name 
— but  I  am  getting  old — my  memory  isn't  what  it  was — 
dear,  dear,  what's  to  become  of  us  all?  Never  mind,  I 
still  recollect  that  I  am 

Yours  most  sincerely, 

The  D.  D.  B.  V. 

This  sportive  letter  is  the  first  direct  intimation 
that  we  have  from  Black  of  his  sufferings  from  that 
errant  tormentor,  the  vagus  nerve.  It  caused  him 
great  pain  at  this  time;  and  though  he  struggled 
bravely,  he  was  even  now,  though  he  lived  for  more 
than  ten  years  longer,  unmistakably  on  the  down- 
grade so  far  as  his  physical  and  nervous  condition 
was  concerned.  He  was  reticent  now,  as  he  had 
been  all  his  life,  and  few  of  his  friends  knew  what 
he  suffered.  If  at  times  they  noticed  an  unwonted 
depression  in  his  appearance  and  manner  they  were 
reassured  by  some  wild  outburst  of  high  spirits,  or 
by  the  knowledge  that  in  his  working  hours  he  was 
just  as  much  absorbed  in  his  task,  and  as  merciless 
to  himself  in  its  performance,  as  he  had  ever  been. 

298 


THE    VAGUS    NERVE 

Those  who  knew  and  loved  him  think  sadly  now 
of  those  days  when  they  were  kept  in  ignorance  of 
the  positive  physical  torment  that  he  had  to  suffer, 
and  when  they  were  only  permitted  to  guess  at  its 
existence  from  the  nervous  depression  with  which 
he  manifestly  had  to  contend. 

To  Dr.  Lauder  Brunton. 

Reform  Club, 

April  2,d. 
MY  DEAR  BRUNTON, — Thank  you  very  much  for  the 
diagram.  I  knew  it  was  that  infernal  vagus  nerve.  What 
the  devil  has  it  to  do  in  that  galley?  And  it  kicked  up 
another  row  yesterday  morning,  when  I  saw  a  young 
ruffian  nearly  killed  by  a  train ;  the  thing  seemed  to  spring 
a  mine  down  below,  and  the  shock,  curiously  enough, 
passed  out  by  the  tongue,  where  it  tasted  like  fire,  if  fire  has 
a  taste.  There  is  another  fact  for  you.  I  know  so  little 
German,  and  so  little  about  the  history  of  evil,  that  I  dare 
not  review  that  book.  I  thought  some  one  was  mentioned 
on  Saturday  who  could  review  it,  and  I  was  to  have  a  look 
at  it  afterwards.  Alas!  alas!  I  have  had  my  book;  and 
have  too  soon  discovered  that  I  have  entirely  or  nearly 
forgotten  what  little  German  I  ever  had.  I  will  return 
you  the  book  in  a  day  or  two. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Reform  Club, 

Friday. 
MY  DEAR  BRUNTON,— Just  a  word  of  acknowledg- 
ment of  your  kindness  in  securing  for  me  the  services  of 
the  Swedish  magician,  whose  spells  are  already  proving 
efficacious.  He  seems  to  think  that  he  will  have  quite 
finished  by  Wednesday  next  week,  in  which  case,  I  suppose, 

299 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

to  save  you  trouble,  I  may  simply  ask  him  what  his  fee  is, 
and  pay  him  forthwith.  I  owe  you  a  profound  apology 
about  Ferrier;  if  I  had  known  that  I  was  to  be  left  in  a 
consulting-room  by  myself,  I  could  have  got  over  that 
small  financial  difficulty  without  any  trouble.  As  matters 
stand,  if  you  could  get  him  to  accept  a  fee  it  would  be  very 
much  better;  but  I  would  not  press  so  small  a  matter; 
but  would  it  do  if  I  sent  Mrs.  Ferrier  a  copy  of  Judith 
Shakespeare  bound  in  white  vellum,  or  Ferrier  himself  a 
salmon  (supposing  I  got  one),  or  both?  Du  Maurier  seems 
to  have  got  this  same  ailment  in  his  hands  and  feet  (though 
in  his  case  they  call  it  peripheral  neuralgia),  and  as  I  am 
to  meet  him  at  dinner  to-night,  I  presume  there  will  be  an 
interesting  comparison  of  symptoms.  But  there  won't 
be  no  symptoms  when  I  get  up  to  the  Oykel. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

To  Miss  Anderson. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

Christmas  Day,  1 885. 
DEAR  WRETCH,— You  may  imagine  that  there  was 
joy  in  this  house  of  Black  yesterday.  First  of  all,  the 
small  sprat,  Violet,  was  allowed  to  come  back  to  her  own 
home  after  the  long  separation.  And  then  came  your 
beautiful  presents  to  tell  us  all  that  in  your  busy  life,  and 
three  thousand  miles  away,  you  still  could  find  time  to 
think  of  some  people  who  haven't  forgotten  you.  Oh 
no,  they  haven't,  not  the  least  bit.  It  isn't  a  way  of  theirs. 
Besides,  there  are  all  kinds  of  things  to  remind  them— to 
say  nothing  of  the  five  hundred  portraits,  busts,  statuettes, 
etc.,  etc.,  of  you  that  are  all  over  the  house.  Every  time  I 
see  a  woman  in  the  street  wearing  a  red  veil  (to  give  herself 
a  nice  scarlet-feverish  aspect),  I  say  to  myself,  "  I  wonder 
if  that  Wretch  is  keeping  her  promise."  Then  there  was 
another  thing.     For  six  or  seven  weeks  I  occupied  the 

30° 


THE    BLUE    ROOM 

Blue  Room  that  you  know — Juliet's  chamber,  we  call  it 
— and  each  morning  I  found  I  could  not  pour  water  from 
the  ewer  into  the  basin  without  shying  about  a  quart  of 
it  over  the  floor.  Accordingly,  every  morning  it  was, 
"  Now,  how  on  earth  did  she  manage  it?"  Bret  Harte, 
who  also  had  this  room,  used  to  complain  that  he  had  to 
keep  chasing  the  soap  for  about  twenty  minutes  round  the 
washstand ;  so  it  is  clear  there  must  be  some  kind  of  dia- 
blerie in  that  apartment.  I  believe  you  tried  to  pitch  your- 
self out  of  the  window,  then  repented,  and  pretended  that 
your  foot  slipped.  I  don't  think  I  have  written  to  you 
since  I  got  the  Van  der  Weyde  photographs.  The  one  in 
which  you  are  seated  (the  Tarn  o'  Shanter  one)  is  greatly 
admired — and  coveted.  Parsons,  whose  new  studio  is  very 
swell,  though  he  has  timorously  painted  it  white,  is  so 
delighted  with  it  that  he  is  going  to  have  it  let  into  the 
central  panel  of  his  mantel-piece.  I  gave  one  to  Mrs.  H., 
whose  letter  I  enclose,  and  one  to  Georgie  (did  I  tell  you 

about  K 's  black  eye? — it  sounds  so  poetical!).     Abbey 

wants  one — not  a  black  eye,  a  photograph ;  but  I  haven't 
one  to  spare  until  Van  der  Weyde  sends  me  two  or  three 
more.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Chart  had  the  "  Private  Secretary  "  down 
here  a  little  while  ago.  We  went  along  and  had  afternoon 
dinner  with  her,  and  then  went  to  her  box.  My  wife  and 
she  kept  informing  me  that  this  time  I  should  see  the  piece. 
I  really  don't  know  what  they  meant ;  but  as  it  seemed  to 
afford  their  innocent  young  minds  some  amusement,  I 
suppose  it  was  all  right.  I  did  see  the  piece.  What  then? 
There's  nothing  I  hate  so  much  as  envious  ribaldry.  .  .  . 

THE  D.  D.  B.  V. 

To  the  same. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

November  2$d. 
DEAR  WRETCH, — You  were  so  very  nice  and  good  the 
other  evening  that  I  can't  help  sending  you  a  line  just  to 

301 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

free  your  innocent  young  mind  from  certain  apprehen- 
sions. Know,  then,  that  the  heroine  of  the  house -boat 
story  is  represented  as  being  the  most  delightful  and  angelic 
of  human  creatures — beautiful,  gentle,  fascinating,  merry, 
generous,  good-humored ;  in  short,  everything  that  is  most 
winning  and  attractive  and  admirable ;  so  you  will  see  at 
once  that  nobody  could  for  a  moment  dream  of  identify- 
ing such  a  fictitious  character  with — with — with — with — in 
fact,  anybody!  Now  are  you  happy?  Good-bye,  and  be 
just  as  nice  the  next  time. 

The  D.  D.  B.  V. 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

December  4,  1885. 
My  DEAR  CRERAR, — The  daintily  got-up  little  volume 
just  received.  I  think  the  poem  exceedingly  fitted  to  the 
occasion,  and  very  sympathetic.  My  good  friend,  don't 
trouble  yourself  about  anything  you  see  concerning  me  in 
print.  That  story  isn't  likely  to  give  me  a  sleepless  night 
— no,  not  if  they  were  to  kill  me  in  newspaper  paragraphs 
once  a  fortnight.  For  the  rest,  I  haven't  read  a  single  re- 
view of  any  book  of  mine  for  years  back  (though  I  have 
read  two  leading  articles).  I  know  my  own  business. 
Two  of  the  children  are  just  escaping  from  a  mild  attack 
of  scarlatina.  It  has  been  a  great  annoyance,  for  we  have 
been  unable  to  see  any  friends  for  the  last  five  weeks — 
and  this  is  the  gay  time  at  Brighton.  However,  it  might 
have  been  worse. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 


CHAPTER   VII 
LAST  YEARS 

Middle  Age — Continued  Prosperity — A  Record  of  Work — In 
Far  Lochaber — James  R.  Osgood — Failing  Health — Donald 
Ross  of  Heimra — The  Copyright  Controversy — Mr.  Kipling's 
Poem — Loss  of  Friends — The  Royal  Academy  Club — Last 
Visit  to  the  Oykel — Serious  Illness — Wild  Eelin — A  Question 
of  Taste — Black's  Views  on  Religion — Hereditary  Influences 
— Revolt  from  High  Calvinism — The  End  of  His  Work — Last 
Appearance  at  the  Reform  Club — Messages  of  Comfort — Death, 
December  10,  1898 — The  Black  Memorial  Beacon. 

THE  years  were  speeding  swiftly  with  Black  at 
this  time,  as  with  most  of  us  when  we  have 
come  to  middle  age  and  to  the  settled  routine  of 
every-day  life.  Even  a  novelist,  who  lives  upon 
his  imagination,  and  whose  lot  it  is  to  weave  fairy- 
tales for  the  delight  of  other  people,  has  to  taste  of 
the  monotony  of  existence  like  less  fortunate  mor- 
tals whose  business  lies  in  stocks  and  shares,  or 
corn  or  cotton.  Black,  as  I  have  sought  to  show, 
never  took  the  work  of  his  imagination  lightly. 
To  him  it  was  always  something  serious  and  real, 
and  the  years  made  no  difference  in  the  hold  which 
it  had  upon  his  life.  But  he  continued  to  be  the 
most  systematic  of  men,  and  each  year  as  it  passed 
saw  the  completion  of  its  appointed  task.  Thus 
1887  and  1888  produced  the  Adventures  of  a  House- 

303 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

boat  and  In  Far  Lochaber,  while  1889  bore  fruit  in 
the  New  Prince  Fortunatus  and  The  Penance  of 
John  Logan. 

Stand  Fast,  Craig  Royston!  represents  the  prod- 
uct of  1890;  Donald  Ross  of  Heimra  that  of  1891. 
Wolfenberg  was  produced  in  1892;  The  Handsome 
Humes  in  1893;  Highland  Cousins  in  1894;  Briseis 
in  1896;  and  Wild  Eelin,  the  last  of  a  long  list,  in 
1898.  It  is  an  amazing  account  of  work  when  one 
comes  to  sum  it  up  in  this  fashion,  and  it  places 
Black  among  the  most  prolific,  as  he  certainly  was 
among  the  most  gifted,  of  British  novelists.  But 
all  these  volumes,  all  these  countless  pages,  were 
produced  with  such  undeviating  regularity,  such 
systematic  industry,  that  the  effect  of  the  story  of 
his  life  during  these  years  of  successful  effort  could 
hardly  fail  to  be  monotonous  were  it  to  be  told  in 
detail.  Year  by  year  the  same  months  were  given 
to  the  production  of  the  book  appointed  for  that  par- 
ticular year;  year  by  year  there  was  the  spring 
visit  to  Scotland  for  the  salmon-fishing,  and  the 
autumn  stay  at  Oban,  or  some  other  chosen  retreat 
where  friends  were  made  welcome  to  the  family 
circle,  and  Black's  high  spirits  asserted  themselves 
in  boisterous  though  innocent  revelry.  The  reader 
must  picture  for  himself  the  life  he  led  in  those  days. 
It  was  a  life  of  happiness,  of  prosperity,  of  hard, 
successful  work.  Not  that  the  work  was  always 
upon  the  same  level.  It  is  no  purpose  of  mine,  in 
telling  the  story  of  my  friend's  life,  to  constitute 
myself  his  critic.  I  am  well  aware — no  one  better 
— that    during    those    prosperous    years    in    which 

304 


"JOHN    LOGAN" 

Black  grew  into  middle  age,  and  the  gray  hairs 
began  to  mingle  with  the  brown  on  his  head,  he 
had  ceased  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  outer  world 
as  he  did  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  New  fashions 
had  arisen  in  fiction,  as  in  everything  else,  and  the 
critics  were  inclined  to  the  belief  that  the  author  of 
A  Princess  of  Thale  had  done  his  best,  and  that 
henceforward  his  books  did  not  demand  the  serious 
notice  which  they  had  once  obtained.  For  the  most 
part,  however,  these  books  possessed  the  old  merits, 
with  one  exception  —  the  novelty  which  had  given 
so  much  of  freshness  and  of  interest  to  his  earlier 
efforts. 

Yet  even  now,  when  Black  had  given  the  public 
so  much  that  some  readers  experienced  a  feeling 
of  satiety,  he  was  quite  capable  of  astonishing  the 
critics  by  efforts  that  showed  how  far  his  powers 
were  from  being  on  the  wane.  In  the  list  I  have 
just  given,  I  mention  one  little  story  that  furnishes 
a  case  in  point.  This  was  The  Penance  of  John 
Logan.  A  short  story  was  wanted  in  a  hurry  by 
an  editor  whose  arrangements  had  somehow  or 
other  miscarried.  In  his  extremity  he  applied  to 
Mr.  Watt,  the  well-known  literary  agent,  and  Mr. 
Watt,  in  his  turn,  went  to  Black.  I  know  not  what 
arguments  he  used  to  move  Black  to  depart  from 
his  regular  routine ;  but  at  last  he  succeeded  in  win- 
ning a  reluctant  promise  that  the  story  should  be 
written,  and  written  at  once.  And  Black  never 
broke  a  promise.  He  sat  down  there  and  then, 
and  in  four  days  The  Penance  of  John  Logan  had 
been  written,  from  the  first  word  to  the  last.      And 

305 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

what  is  The  Penance  of  John  Logan?  I  would  ad- 
vise any  one  who  associates  Black's  name  only 
with  his  earlier  and  more  famous  works  to  turn  to 
the  volume  in  which  this  story  is  told,  if  he  wishes 
to  see  with  what  genuine  force  and  breadth  and  per- 
fect execution  Black  could  write  to  the  end  of  his 
days.  Swiftly  as  his  pen  moved  over  the  paper 
during  the  hours  that  he  devoted  to  this  story,  there 
is  no  trace  of  slovenliness  in  its  pages.  The  work- 
manship is  as  good  as  in  anything  that  he  ever 
wrote.  Among  those  who  were  moved  to  enthu- 
siasm when  it  appeared  was  no  less  competent  a 
critic  than  Mr.  Swinburne,  and  from  the  lips  of  the 
poet  I  had  the  avowal  that  in  his  opinion  it  held  the 
first  place  among  short  stories  in  English  fiction. 
I  believe  that  if,  in  these  years,  when  Black  had  to 
meet  new  conditions  and  a  new  generation,  he  had 
not  produced  so  many  novels,  with  such  undeviat- 
ing  punctuality,  those  which  he  did  give  to  the 
world  would  have  been  received,  even  by  the  superior 
young  critics  who  professed  to  look  upon  him  as 
old-fashioned  and  out-of-date,  with  an  ample  recog- 
nition of  the  fact  that  they  maintained  the  high 
standard  which  their  author  had  himself  set  before 
the  world.  Apart  from  the  critics,  it  must  be  said, 
however,  that  Black  was  one  of  the  happy  writers 
who  can  always  keep  their  circle  of  readers.  More- 
over, like  some  other  great  artists,  he  found,  as  I 
have  already  pointed  out,  in  the  New  World  an 
ever-widening  band  of  admirers  long  after  famil- 
iarity had  lessened  his  vogue  in  the  Old.  Between 
1882  and  1898  no  fewer  than  five  of  his  novels  ap- 

306 


SUCCESSFUL    TO    THE    END 

peared  first  in  Harper's  Magazine,  and  there  was 
no  sign,  to  the  very  last,  that  his  popularity  in  the 
United  States  was  waning.  He  thus  continued, 
to  the  sincere  delight  of  his  personal  friends,  to  be 
a  successful  author  to  the  end.  The  life  of  the  suc- 
cessful man  of  letters  when  success  has  been  at- 
tained, when  the  early  struggles  are  at  an  end,  and 
when  no  sudden  catastrophe  comes  to  break  up  the 
career,  is  apt  to  have  a  sameness  that  detracts  from 
the  interest  of  a  biography.  So  these  years  of  regu- 
lar and  well-remunerated  toil  on  the  part  of  Black, 
when  he  had  made  himself  secure  in  his  own  king- 
dom, and  had  neither  desire  nor  necessity  to  look 
with  envious  eyes  upon  other  monarchs  in  other 
realms,  are  not  years  that  need  detain  us  here.  Yet 
one  may  cull  from  this  happy  and  tranquil  stage 
of  his  existence  a  few  characteristic  letters  that  show 
what  he  was  to  the  end,  how  youthful  in  heart,  how 
full  of  the  joy  of  living. 

To  Miss  Morten. 

Paston  House, 

Friday  (1885). 
MY  DEAR  DOLL, — I  am  very  glad  you  think  so;  for 
these  three  instalments  read  to  me  most  infernally  dull. 
And  No.  3  is  worse,  but  No.  4  (April)  wakes  up  a  little; 
for  then  my  American  young  woman  comes  in.  I  haven't 
put  too  much  Giraffe  into  her,  but  just  Giraffe  enough. 
But  I've  given  up  story-writing  and  taken  to  poetry.  Bless 
you,  it's  as  easy  as  anything.  Just  you  look  at  the  other 
side  and  you'll  see.  I  can  see  the  Baba  at  this  moment 
ramping  up  and  down  a  long,  green  enclosure  beneath  the 
windows.      I   am   informed   that   this  represents   General 

307 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

Gordon  escaping  from  Khartoum,  that  Mabs  is  Sir  Redvers 
Buller,  and  Norman  —  who  has  got  himself  wounded  on 
the  cheek  —  General  Stewart.  Chiggy,  I  suppose,  is  the 
newspaper  correspondent. 

Yours  always, 

W.  Black. 

A  Ballad 

The  kirkyard  mould  is  on  my  head, 

But  a  fire  is  in  my  heart. 
0  Mary  Mother,  have  pity  on  me, 

And  let  my  soul  depart. 

O,  is  she  dead,  or  does  she  live, 

That  wrought  this  woe  on  me, 
That  neither  heaven  nor  hell  is  mine, 

And  in  the  dark  I  dree? 

Yestreen  I  thought  I  heard  her  step, 
A  flame  went  through  my  breast: 

"  0,  is  she  come  to  say  the  word, 
Will  let  my  soul  have  rest?" 

But  never  she  thinks  of  Girvan's  banks, 

And  never  of  Af ton's  bowers ; 
Nor  of  the  nights  her  heart  beat  wild 

Till  the  wan  morning  hours. 

But  ever  her  eyes  are  angry  red, 

And  her  cheeks  are  white  and  white, 

God's  Mother,  I  pray  you  pardon  me, 
And  let  my  soul  take  flight! 

It's  heaven  or  hell  that  I  would  seek, 

If  my  true  love  is  not  there — 
My  false  love  that  did  murder  me 

On  the  bonny  banks  of  Ayr. 
308 


"IN    FAR    LOCHABER" 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

November  17,  1887. 

MY  DEAR  CRERAR, — Curiously  enough,  I  had  been 
thinking  of  writing  to  you  for  some  days  before  getting 
your  letter  and  its  flattering  enclosure;  but  I  have  been 
desperately  busy  since  getting  back  from  the  Highlands. 
We  returned  towards  the  end  of  last  month,  having  spent 
all  the  summer  and  autumn  in  the  north.  As  our  holidays 
there  seem  to  be  growing  longer  and  longer,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  it  ended  in  our  going  and  staying  there  alto- 
gether, though,  to  be  sure,  it  is  very  handy  to  be  so  near  to 
London  as  Brighton  is,  and  I  suppose  the  children's  educa- 
tion can  be  more  easily  managed  in  the  south.  I  hope 
my  next  story  will  interest  you.  It  is  all  about  Fort  William 
— the  title  In  Far  Lochaber.  It  will  begin  in  Harper's 
Magazine  in  January. 

With  very  kind  regards  from  all  of  us, 

Yours  sincerely, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

Ballifeary,  N.  B., 

August  26,  1888. 

MY  DEAR  CRERAR,— I  have  hardly  had  time  to  ac- 
knowledge your  bountj'  with  regard  to  the  Celtic  Magazine 
and  the  Bookhuyer ,  for  I  have  been  so  busy  since  coming 
here ;  but  I  now  do  so  with  hearty  thanks.  We  are  settled 
here  for  the  autumn  in  a  very  prettily  situated  house  just 
overlooking  the  Ness ;  but,  later  on,  I  am  going  away,  up 
into  Ross-shire,  to  pursue  the  wary  stag.  Then,  towards 
the  end  of  October,  my  wife  and  I  go  over  to  Dublin,  to 
be  with  Miss  Mary  Anderson  during  her  farewell  week 
there  before  she  returns  to  America.  I  knew  you  would 
like  In  Far  Lochaber  for  its  associations,  but  you  will 
find  it  more  interesting  as  a  story  further  on.     Tell  your 

309 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

critic  from  me  that  he  is  a  forlorn  ass.  Of  all  song-birds 
the  mavis  is  the  earliest  in  the  morning,  beginning  just 
a  little  after  the  sparrows  have  started  their  chirping. 

To  the  same. 

Reform  Club,  London, 

December  23,  1889. 

MY  DEAR  CRERAR, — This  comes  wishing  you  a  happy 

and  prosperous  New  Year  and  the  best  of  health  and  spirits. 

I  ought  to  have  acknowledged  a  week  ago  the  receipt  of 

the  beautiful  photographs  (for  which  let  me  now  express 

the  most  grateful  thanks),   but  I  have  been  dreadfully 

busy — counting  almost  every  hour.     For  again  this  March 

I  hope  to  be  off  to  the  Oykel,  and  it  will  take  me  all  my  time 

to  worry  through.     If  you  have  been  looking  at  Prince 

Fortunatus,  the  two  rivers  described  in  it  are  the  Oykel 

and  its  tributary,  the  Einig.     In  your  next  letter  tell  me 

more  about  yourself,  your  health,  and  business  prospects. 

We  are  all  pretty  well  here.     J.  R.  Osgood  goes  down  with 

me  to-morrow  to  spend  Christmas  with  us. 

Ever  yours  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

November  31,  1890. 

MY  DEAR  CRERAR, — Just  a  hurried  line  to  thank  you 
for  your  letter  and  for  the  verses,  which  strike  a  welcome 
note.  I  had  no  idea  it  was  fourteen  years  since  I  was  in 
America.  The  name  Sheila,  since  it  first  appeared  in  A 
Princess  of  Thule  has  been  given  to  babes  innumerable, 
to  yachts,  house-boats,  race-horses,  greyhounds,  cottages, 
and  I  don't  know  what  else.  But  I  draw  the  line  at  giving 
it  to  the  heroine  of  a  novel — at  least,  literary  etiquette 
would.  For  my  own  part  I  don't  care  one  brass  farthing 
if  there  were  twenty  writers  advertising  themselves  as 
"  the  author  of  Sheila."  Craig  Royston  has  been  written 
and  sent  to  the  printers  long  ago;  but  I  find  that  Ross  is 

310 


JAMES     R.    OSGOOD 

mentioned  in  it,  and  so  is  Sutherland— once  or  twice.  I 
hope  no  one  will  try  to  identify  any  of  the  personages  in- 
troduced into  a  description  of  a  Burns  anniversary  meeting 
in  New  York— they  are  all  entirely  imaginary. 

In  great  haste, 

Yours  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

There  was  no  one  at  this  period  in  Black's  life 
with  whom  he  was  on  terms  of  greater  intimacy 
than  with  Mr.  Osgood,  of  whom  mention  has  al- 
ready been  made.  Between  the  novelist  and  the 
brilliant  American,  whose  premature  death  caused 
such  deep  and  wide-spread  grief,  a  friendship  akin 
to  that  of  brothers  sprang  up.  The  letters  which 
Black  wrote  to  Osgood  show  not  only  the  warmth 
of  his  affection  for  his  friend,  but  the  steady  yet 
slow  failure  of  his  own  physical  powers  which  had 
now  set  in.  I  insert  some  of  them  without  further 
comment. 

To  J.  R.  Osgood. 

Brighton, 

Friday  {Dec,  1886). 
MY  DEAR  OSGOOD, — I  am  exceedingly  vexed  that  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  join  your  dinner  -  party  of  Tuesday. 
The  chill  that  I  tried  to  drive  off  on  the  principle  of  solvi- 
tur  ambulando  on  Sunday  last  has  now  got  a  fair  grip  of 
me,  and  I  write  this  in  bed.  Not  that  I  am  so  very  ill  off, 
though,  after  all.  I  am  in  the  Blue  Room  that  you  know, 
and  lamps  are  lit,  and  a  fire  blazing ;  and  I  have  just  had 
some  Scotch  broth  and  brown  sherry,  and  I've  got  heaps 
of  magazines,  and  also  Lang's  volume  of  short  stories — 
I  rather  like  it ;  but  I  would  better  have  liked  to  have  got 

311 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

up  to  Jermyn  Street  next  week.  I  hope  this  will  reach 
you  in  time  for  you  to  get  a  fortunate  substitute,  and  with 
many  apologies  and  regrets,  I  am, 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

Some  kind  person  has  just  sent  me  that  paragraph  about 
Abbey's  clog-dancing;  so  I  suppose  it  was  meant  malig- 
nantly.   Poor  devil! 

To  the  same. 

Brighton, 

March  6,  1887. 

MY  DEAR  OSGOOD, — Alas,  I  dare  not  go  out  to  dinner 

just  at  present,  and  by  the  1st  of  April  I  hope  to  be  in  the 

far  wilds  of  Scotland.     But  won't  you  come  down  here 

next  Sunday?     I  have  asked  Harte,  Wemyss  Reid,  and 

Shepard,  who  is  U.   S.   Consul  at  Bradford,  and  have 

promised  them  an  early  dinner,  so  that  they  can  get  up 

by  the  evening  express,  and  be  fresh  for  their  Monday's 

engagements.     They  will  all  be  coming  down  by  the  10.45. 

Do  come.     I  shall  want  two  tickets  for  the  Kinsmen  affair  ;* 

but  goodness  knows  if  I  shall  be  able  to  crawl  up  to  London. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Reform  Club, 

March  30,  1887. 

MY  DEAR  OSGOOD, — If  your  number  is  complete  for 

Friday,  I  hope  you  will  frankly  tell  me  so ;  even  as  I  make 

honest  confession  that  I  should  very  much  like  to  dine 

with  you.     I  have  been  unexpectedly  detained  in  town 

*  The  Kinsmen  were  a  small  society  of  Englishmen  and 
Americans  who  dined  together  once  a  year,  sometimes  in  London 
and  sometimes  in  New  York,  with  the  object  of  promoting  the 
union  of  the  two  branches  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race. 

312 


ILL-HEALTH 

by  a  damnable  conspiracy  of  doctors ;  but  it's  only  for  a 
week,  and  if  you  can  find  a  corner  for  me  without  encum- 
bering your  table,  I  should  be  delighted  to  have  an  evening 
with  you  boys  before  I  go  off  north.  But  as  I  declined 
your  invitation  with  thanks,  so  now  you  may  decline  mine, 

and  we  will  not  quarrel. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

The  following  letter  to  his  "beloved  physician" 
throws  light  upon  the  state  of  his  health  at  this 
time : 

To  Dr.  Lauder  Brunton. 

Oykel  Bridge,  Lairg,  N.  B., 

April  1 6,  1887. 
MY  DEAR  BRUNTON, — It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  answer 
my  last  letter,  though  I  am  sorry  you  took  the  trouble; 
and  I  hope  you  won't  answer  this  one.     I  write  because 

I  promised  to  let  know  through  you  what  was  the 

result  of  his  massage  performance.  If  he  was  at  all  doubt- 
ful, his  half-expressed  fears  have  been  fulfilled,  for  after 
an  obvious  improvement  produced  by  the  first  two  days, 
this  beast  of  a  thing  has  got  worse  instead  of  better,  so 
that  at  present  I  can  scarcely  do  more  than  crawl  across 
the  room.     But  look  at  the  compensations! 

1.  The  long  -  continued  fine  weather  has  completely 
stopped  the  fishing,  and  while  my  companions  fret  and 
fume  and  cuss  and  swear  at  the  sunlight,  I  sit  contentedly 
in  it  and  read  a  book. 

2.  The  pain  I  suffer  in  my  ankles  isn't  half  as  bad  as 
the  agony  inflicted  on  me  by  my  masseur  friend — all  in 
the  way  of  kindness,  no  doubt. 

3.  The  flash  of  fire  that  shoots  along  my  palm  when 
I  reach  out  to  take  hold  of  anything  teaches  one  not  to  be 
overgrasping. 

313 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

Finally,  and  to  conclude,  I  myself  (as  apart  from  these 
wretched  extremities)  am  in  excellent  health.  The  weather 
is  lovely,  the  scenery  is  beautiful,  and  all  I  have  to  look 
forward  to  is  this :  that  if  the  fresh  air  and  idleness  of  this 
place  don't  put  me  on  my  legs  again,  which  they  probably 
will,  I  shall  be  returning  in  about  ten  days  or  so  to  Brighton, 
where  I  shall  confine  myself  to  a  sofa  and  live  on  slops 
and  soda-water  for  three  weeks  to  see  how  that  will  do. 
Then,  if  it  won't  do,  I'll  have  my  legs  sawn  off  at  the  knees 
and  present  the  lower  portion  to  the  College  of  Surgeons. 
I'm  getting  sick  and  tired  of  them ;  in  fact,  we  are  no  longer 
on  speaking  terms.  Now  don't  answer  this  note.  I'll  let 
you  know  further  when  I  get  to  Brighton,  and  with  kind 
regards,  and  remembrances  to  Ferrier, 
I  am, 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

To  J.  R.  Osgood. 

CORRANMORE,  OBAN, 

August  12,  1887. 
My  DEAR  OSGOOD, — Any  time  would  suit  us,  but  if 
you  come  up  at  the  end  of  the  month  you  would  probably 
find  Parsons  in  occupation  of  our  solitary  spare  bedroom, 
if  he  is  well  enough  to  stand  the  change  of  climate.  How- 
ever, I  dare  say  you  and  your  friend  would  endure  putting 
up  for  a  night  or  two  at  the  hotel  next  door  for  the  deleg- 
ability of  having  A.  P.  with  you  on  one  or  two  of  the  small 
trips,  and  perhaps  you  might  travel  from  London  together. 
But  you  must  not  arrange  to  have  the  Svmday,  which  is 
a  dies  non  in  the  Highlands,  form  part  of  your  Oban  stay ; 
for  you  want  a  day  at  Staffa  and  Iona  before  going  on. 
In  fact,  you  are  trying  to  do  too  much  in  rushing  the  Eng- 
lish lakes  (which  are  at  the  best  only  pretty :  Lake  George 
— Killarney — Como — chromo-lithographic  kind  of  things) 
and  the  Highlands  together    in    so  short   a   time.     You 

3H 


GUESTS    AT     OBAN 

will  be  like  the  two  American  tourists  whom  the  Harpers 
have  commissioned  to  describe  the  west  Highlands  in 
pen  and  pencil  during  their  autumn  trip.  Mong  Dew! 
I  pity  them.  But  probably  they  won't  understand,  and 
what  they  see  will  suffice  for  their  immediate  requirements, 
and  they  won't  know  what  they  are  missing.  The  west 
Highlands  a  la  mode  de  Frank  Stockton!  I  brought  Bret 
Harte  up  here  once;  but  he  spent  most  of  his  time  in  the 
smoking-room  of  the  hotel,  and  there  he  showed  his  wisdom. 
Yes;  I'll  go  up  the  "  great  glen  "  with  you — that  you  can 
rush  with  impunity.  It's  the  conventional  landscape  busi- 
ness.    I  hope  you'll  have  good  weather. 

Yours  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

To  the  same. 

Oban, 

September  I,  1887. 
MY  DEAR  OSGOOD, — It  seems  rather  odd  for  me  to 
write  you  to  visit  us  in  the  Highlands,  and  then  to  acquiesce 
in  your  going  to  a  hotel ;  but,  of  course,  we  didn't  expect 
you  and  Parsons  would  be  coming  up  at  the  same  time. 
However,  the  conjunction  of  two  such  fortunate  planets 
will  cause  all  minor  considerations  to  take  a  back  seat, 
and  the  result  of  your  going  to  the  Alexandra  will  be  that 
we  shall  have  two  houses  to  paint  red  instead  of  one.  .  .  . 
I  sent  you  the  corrected  proofs  the  other  day,  and  may 
God  forgive  those  printers  for  having  destroyed  my  man- 
uscript. I  have  two  other  instalments  ready ;  should  I 
send  them  to  you  to  be  safely  locked  up,  or  would  you 
despatch  them  to  America?  I  am  very  well  content  with 
this  story,  so  far  as  it  has  gone.  There  is  plenty  of 
material  in  it,  which  always  makes  the  thing  easier 
to  write.  .  .  . 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

315 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

The  story  referred  to  in  the  above  was  In  Far 
Lochaber.  The  writing  occupied  the  usual  space 
of  time  in  the  autumn  and  winter  months,  and  as 
it  was  published  in  America  by  the  Messrs.  Har- 
per, Black  necessarily  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Os- 
good while  it  was  in  progress.  In  November  they 
went  on  a  little  tour  together  to  Canterbury  and 
the  isle  of  Thanet,  and  Black  wrote  some  humor- 
ous verses  to  celebrate  a  pilgrimage  that  was  not 
without  its  convivial  side. 

The  Strange  Adventures  of  Pilgrim  James 

'Twas  James  set  forth  on  pilgrimage 

To  Canterbury's  shrine. 
Oatmeal,  he  swore,  should  be  his  food, 

And  water  pure  his  wine. 

And  holy  thoughts  should  fill  his  soul, 

From  morning  until  even, 
Till  earth  should  but  a  ladder  be 

For  stepping  into  heaven. 

But  Sussex  maids  are  wondrous  fair, 

Witches  in  Kent  there  be; 
They  smiled  and  ogled,  laughed  and  talked, 

And,  oh,  my!  didn't  he! 

In  Canterbury's  sacred  town, 

As  everybody  knows, 
There  is  the  famous  Fountain  Inn — 

That  fountain  flows  La  Rose. 

La  Rose  by  day,  La  Rose  by  night; 
It  flowed  and  flowed  and  flowed,* 

*  But  for  James  only. 
316 


'    '     T      /"vr-lTTAT-|T^T-»>> 


LAST    OF     "LOCHABER 

Till  Pilgrim  James  resumed  his  staff, 
And  once  more  took  the  road. 

0  ancient  fanes!     0  walks  and  drives! 

Snow-storms  with  sunshine  blent; 
0  snugness  of  the  way-side  inns! 

O  kindly  maids  of  Kent. 

The  strangest  country  e'er  was  seen! 

For  scarce  three  days  were  fled, 
When  all  of  it  appeared  to  be 

Painted  a  deep,  rich  red. 

'Twas  James  he  threw  aside  his  staff: 

"  No  more  I  mean  to  roam, 
I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

But  now  I've  found  my  home!" 

Early  in  March,  1888,  the  writing  of  the  story 
was  finished,  and  Black  set  off  at  once  to  his  fish- 
ing quarters  in  Scotland. 

To  James  R.  Osgood. 

Reform  Club,  London, 

March  13,  1888. 
DEAR  JAMES,— (If  you  are  up  yet).  Here's  the  last  of 
Lochaber  (Gott  sei  dank).  But  I  would  rather  not  worry 
H.  &  B.  for  a  check;  let  the  heaven -born  inspiration 
come  of  itself — any  time  during  the  year.  I'm  off  from 
Euston  to-morrow  evening  at  eight.  If  you  should  happen 
to  be  wandering  around  in  that  neighborhood,  look  in, 
and  we  will  shed  a  parting  tear. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 
317 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

To  Mr.  R.  S.  Williams. 

Paston  House, 

May  io,  1888. 
MY  DEAR  WILLIAMS,— Some  day,  when  Mrs.  Williams 
is  in  an  awful  good-humor  (you  won't  have  to  wait  very 
long),  I  wish  you'd  ask  her  to  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  this  : 
Supposing  two  young  people — a  young  man  and  a  young 
woman — have  been  studying  music  under  the  same  master 
abroad,  and  there  is  an  interval  of  a  year  or  two,  and  they 
meet  again,  then  what  difficult  piece  of  music  would  the 
young  woman  choose  to  show  what  advance  she  had  made 
in  the  mean  time,  and  what  would  be  the  special  quality 
of  her  execution  that  would  command  his  admiration? 
Then,  on  his  side,  what  would  be  the  kind  of  things  he 
would  practise — say,  of  a  morning — in  the  case  of  his  sing- 
ing every  evening  in  a  comedy-opera?  Or  would  he  prac- 
tise at  all?  And  what  was  that  unholy-looking  drink  that 
was  in  Mrs.  Williams's  room  that  evening  at  the  Avenue? 
That  pale-green  fluid.  Would  a  man  have  the  courage  to 
drink  that  stuff?  I  hope  you  are  both  well  and  flourish- 
ing. I  think  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  you  at  the  Academy 
Private  View,  but  I  was  button-holed  just  at  the  moment. 
We  go  up  to  town  to-morrow  to  see  some  of  those  artist 
folks  who  are  all  running  riot  in  idleness  and  revelry  at 
the  present  time ;  but  thereafter,  when  we  get  settled  down 
here,  I  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  persuade  Mrs.  Williams 
and  you  to  pay  us  a  flying  visit. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

It  was  natural  enough  that  Black's  own  letter- 
bag  in  those  years  of  fame  and  ease  should  contain 
many  appeals  from  less  fortunate  persons,  and, 
above  all,  from  those  who  were  following,  or  at- 
tempting to   follow,  the  calling  of  letters.     Black, 

318 


SYMPATHY  FOR  THE  UNFORTUNATE 

as  the  reader  must  have  already  seen,  did  not  wear 
his  heart  upon  his  sleeve,  and  to  the  outer  world 
he  seemed  to  be  the  last  man  who  could  be  easily 
moved  by  a  mere  appeal  to  his  charity.  Yet  in 
this,  as  in  other  matters,  he  hid  his  real  self  from 
the  stranger,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  con- 
stantly ready  to  respond  to  these  calls  upon  his 
sympathy,  not  merely  by  gifts  of  money,  but  by 
serious  attempts  to  assist  unfortunate  writers.  Here 
is  one  of  many  letters  which  I  received  from  him, 
illustrating  this  side  of  his  character : 

Tp  Wemyss  Reid. 

Ballifeary, 

Augiist  18,  1888. 
MY  DEAR  REID, — I  send  by  this  post  a  specimen  tale 
by  that  unfortunate  man  whose  letter  I  forwarded  to  you 
the  other  day.  If  you  can  find  anything  for  him  to  do 
you  would  be  rewarded  in  heaven;  but  I  confess  my  own 
impression  is  that  he  is  one  of  the  many  miserable  wretches 
who  have  mistaken  their  vocation  in  life.  I  enclose  his 
second  letter  that  you  may  have  his  address. 

Ever  yours, 

William  Black. 

The  second  letter  alluded  to  above  was  a  grate- 
ful acknowledgment  of  the  pecuniary  help  Black 
had  given  to  his  correspondent. 

To  James  R.  Osgood. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

March  7,   1 889. 
DEAR  JAMES, — I'm  afraid  you're  having  a  twister  of 
a  voyage.     However,  by  the  time  this  reaches  you  you  will 
be  on  American  soil,  and  I  hope  to  goodness  you  will  remain 

319 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

there  some  time,  and  give  us  all  a  chance  of  recovering.  You 
remember  you  suggested  a  fortnight  as  the  time  I  should 
give  the  Graphic  people  to  decide ;  but  I'm  not  going  to  do 
that.  If  you  have  a  chance  of  a  private  talk  with  J.  W. 
H.  you  might  tell  him  what  I  told  you  about  Miss  Peggy 
as  a  grass  widow,  and  the  Mediterranean  and  Greek  Archi- 
pelago ;  and  if  it  strikes  him  that  this  would  be  an  attractive 
feature  for  the  magazine  of  1 891,  they  might  send  me  a 
simple  "  yes  "  by  telegram,  and  I  should  then  be  in  a 
position  to  make  arrangements  and  reply  to  the  Graphic. 
I  know  the  latter  would  prefer  my  doing  something  of  the 
same  kind  with  regard  to  a  voyage  to  Australia ;  but  the 
idea  doesn't  recommend  itself  to  me  in  any  aspect  what- 
ever. I  think  Miss  Peggy  ought  to  be  popular  in  an  Amer- 
ican magazine ;  she  appears  to  have  been  sufficiently  so 
over  here.  There  is  no  absolute  necessity  for  illustrations ; 
but  of  course  such  a  scheme  would  give  abundant  oppor- 
tunities to  such  a  man  as  Reinhardt ;  and  while  I  am  talking 
business,  could  you  find  out  whether  it  would  be  equally 
convenient  for  Franklin  Square  to  begin  publishing  Prince 
Fortunatus  in  the  third  week  of  July  next,  instead  of  the 
first?  This  is  a  private  request  made  by  the  Graphic 
to  suit  their  own  arrangements.  I  don't  care  about  it  one 
way  or  the  other.     As  you  know,  the  story  is  written. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 
P.S. — Of  course,  there  would  be  new  characters  in  that 
Mediterranean  -  Grecian  trip;    the   only  ones    transferred 
from  the  House-boat  would  be  the  narrator,  his  wife,  and 
the  young  American  banjoist  and  mischief-maker. 

To  the  same. 

CORRANMORE,  OBAN, 

October  2,  1889. 
MY  DEAR  OSGOOD, — The  coach-house  door  that  you 
put  below  your  yachts  and  take  into  the  saloon  on  occasion 

320 


"DONALD  ROSS  OF  HEIMRA' 

has  done  its  trick  this  time,  and  there's  nothing  more  to 
be  said  beyond  ordering  the  dinner — always  a  grateful 
task.  Is  the  Reform  Club  open  yet,  and  will  the  2ist  suit 
you?  If  so,  I  will  write  and  ask  Abbey  and  Parsons  and 
Millett,  who,  with  Mosley,  would  make  up  the  number. 
Are  you  still  thinking  of  that  other  little  picture  of  Lindsay 
MacArthur's,  for  if  not,  a  brother-in-law  of  mine  seems 
rather  to  fancy  it.  I  would  buy  it,  but  can't  afford  it  in 
these  hard  times. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

February  19,  1 89 1. 
DEAR  JAMES, — I'm  afraid  you  must  have  had  a  cold 
and   comfortless   passage   across.     The   weather   has   re- 
turned here  in  full  force.     I  wish  it  were  in  Hades,  where 
it  would  be  much  appreciated.  .  .  . 

Commend  me  to  those  wild  boys  of  Franklin  Square, 
and  to  Laffan,  Hutton,  and  all  the  others.  Ask  Tommy 
if  he  is  still  making  comparisons,  and  tell  old  Higginson 
that  the  Queen  can't  sleep  in  her  bed  o'  nights  because 
of  his  disapproval  of  English  ways. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 
To  the  same. 

Lang  well  Lodge,  by  Lairg,  N.  B., 

April  8,  189 1. 
DEAR  JAMES, — Why  this  mysterious  reticence?  But 
I  shall  be  back  at  the  end  of  the  month.  In  the  mean  time, 
could  vou  discover  whether  it  is  possible  to  copyright  Donald 
Ross  of  Heimra  in  America?  I  had  intended  it  to  end 
with  the  end  of  June  in  the  Daily  Chronicle,  and  Marston 
had  got  from  the  proprietors  permission  to  publish  the 
three  volumes  about  the  middle  of  June.     But  I  dare  say 

321 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

Messrs.  Lloyd  wouldn't  mind  my  altering  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  final  chapters,  so  that  the  story  would  run  two 
months  into  July ;  and  Marston  would  then  publish  in  late 
August  as  he  had  originally  intended.  But  would  the 
fact  of  these  final  chapters  being  published  subsequent 
to  the  coming  into  operation  of  the  Copyright  Act  obtain 
copyright  in  the  United  States  for  the  book,  or  only  for 
these  particular  chapters?  And,  in  the  latter  case,  would 
H.  &  B.  consider  that  a  sufficient  protection?  I  can  find 
no  solution  of  these  conundrums  in  the  act  itself.  I  have 
already  had  one  or  two  proposals  from  publishers  on  the 
other  side;  but,  of  course,  I  can  say  nothing  until  I  hear 
what  H.  &  B.'s  suggestion  is. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

P.S.— I  have  a  short  story,  called  "  The  Magic  Ink," 
which  will  appear  in  Good  Words,  January  and  February, 
1892.  It  is  in  four  chapters.  Could  H.  &  B.  find  a  place 
for  it  in  one  of  their  serials,  or  should  I  sell  the  American 
rights  to  Tillotson,  who  has  an  American  syndicate? 

The  reference  to  the  American  Copyright  Act 
draws  attention  to  an  event  of  importance  in  the 
life  of  Black,  as  in  the  lives  of  most  English  novel- 
ists of  the  day.  Like  most  English  writers  popular 
in  America,  Black  secured  some  profit  as  well  as 
full  security  for  his  rights  from  the  passing  of  the 
act;  but,  unlike  many  of  his  contemporaries  in 
England,  he  did  not  feel  that  he  had  any  grievance 
against  the  American  publishers  who  had  issued 
his  works  when  they  were  still  unprotected  by  the 
law.  His  relations  with  the  Harpers,  as  many  of 
the  letters  I  have  given  prove,  had  always  been 
most  friendly,  and  his  treatment  by  them  had  left 

322 


THE     ADMIRAL     OF     THE     NORTH 

him  nothing  to  complain  of.  With  characteristic 
eagerness  he  rushed  into  print,  when  a  general  at- 
tack was  made  upon  the  American  publishers,  in 
order  to  defend  those  with  whom  he  had  been  per- 
sonally connected;  and  his  chivalrous  defence  of 
the  Harpers  in  particular  excited  no  little  attention 
when  it  was  given  to  the  world.  Sir  Walter  Besant 
and  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy  were  associated  with  Black 
in  this  proceeding,  the  immediate  result  of  which 
was  to  bring  down  upon  their  heads  a  remonstrance 
from  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  in  the  shape  of  a  poem, 
of  which  the  first  stanza  is  as  follows : 

...  At  the  close  of  a  winter's  day 
Their  anchors  down,  by  London  town,  the  three  great 

captains  lay ; 
And  one  was  Admiral  of  the  North,  from  Sol  way  Firth 

to  Skye, 
And  one  was  lord  of  the  Wessex  coast,  and  all  the  lands 

thereby, 
And  one  was  Master  of  the  Thames  from  Limehouse  to 

Black  wall, 
And  he  was  the  Captain  of  the  Fleet,  the  bravest  of  them 

all. 

The  controversy  was  not  very  exciting,  but  it 
had,  at  all  events,  the  result  of  making  still  more 
friendly  the  relations  between  Black  and  his  Amer- 
ican publishers.  Writing  to  Mrs.  Black,  Mr.  Joseph 
W.  Harper  made  the  following  reference  to  Black's 
action:  "Mr.  Black,  in  his  straightforward,  simple, 
and  withal  gracious  and  graceful  way,  did  my  house 
a  great  favor  a  few  weeks  ago,  by  joining  with  two 
of  his  brother  authors  in  a  gallant  knightly  act,  for 

323 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

which  the  house  endeavored  to  thank  him  and  them. 
The  thanks  were  inadequately  expressed,  but  I  was 
sure  your  husband  would  feel  how  honest  was  the 
intention.  It  would  be  but  sorry  compliment  to  him 
to  say  that  I  was  unprepared  for  or  could  be  in  the 
least  taken  aback  or  'rattled'  (Dr.  Murray  in  his 
new  dictionary  has  not  got  down  to  this  American 
use  of  'rattled/  meaning  discomposed  or  flustered) 
by  any  manly,  generous  act  of  his;  but  I  must  say 
that  I  am  proud  of  the  friendship  of  such  a  man, 
as  I  am  of  the  friendship  of  all  good  men  and  wom- 
en. It  isn't  everybody  (man  or  woman)  who  loves 
your  husband,  which  is  most  creditable  to  him; 
for,  like  all  men  tenacious  of  truth  and  fair  play, 
he  has  his  enemies  among  the  ignoble.  But  I  may 
say  of  him,  as  Thackeray  said  conditionally  of  dear 
Colonel  Newcomb,  'everybody  who  knew  him  loved 
him;  everybody,  that  is,  who  loved  modesty  and 
generosity  and  honor.'" 

To  J.  Henry  Harper. 

Glenlyon  Lodge,  Oban, 

September  17,  189 1. 
MY  DEAR  HARPER, — I  have  to  send  you  most  grateful 
thanks  for  the  salmon-rod,  which  I  hear  has  safely  arrived 
at  Brighton ;  and  also  for  the  two  books  on  fishing,  which 
I  have  read  with  great  interest.  Mr.  Wells  (with  whose 
name  I  was  already  quite  familiar)  will  find  me  a  willing 
convert  to  his  theories,  if  only  they  will  work  out  in  practice ; 
that  is  to  say,  I  have  not  the  slighest  wish  to  labor  away 
with  the  seventeen-foot  rod,  if  a  fifteen-and-a-half-foot  one 
will  do  the  work  equally  well.  We  will  see  next  spring — 
in  that  blessed  northern  region,  which  has  none  of  the  black 

324 


A     HIGHLAND    PICTURE 

flies,  mosquitoes,  or  other  of  those  pests  which  H.  P.  W. 
describes  so  feelingly.  I  am  exceedingly  glad  you  like 
the  picture.  It  will  no  doubt  surprise  some  people,  for 
not  only  is  it  unconventional  in  manner,  but  also  it  deals 
with  a  condition  of  atmosphere  which  I  have  never  seen 
elsewhere  than  in  the  west  Highlands.  The  picture  is 
true.  You  may  take  my  word  for  it — true  in  color,  in  light, 
and  in  the  sharp  vividness  of  the  glancing  water.  There 
is,  perhaps,  a  trace  of  Colin  Hunter  in  the  treatment ;  but 
it  is  none  the  worse  for  that ;  and  it  has  original  qualities 
of  its  own.  Then  the  sudden  squall  of  rain  on  the  left  of 
the  composition.  You  may  never  know,  as  we  have  known 
this  summer,  how  characteristic  that  is  of  this  country! 
It  has  been  the  wettest,  the  most  incomprehensible  season 
we  have  ever  experienced  in  the  Highlands;  my  aneroid 
has  been  vainly  endeavoring  to  follow  the  changes  of  the 
weather,  and  now  has  stopped  stock-still  in  disgust.  Has 
the  "  Royal  and  Ancient  Game  of  Golf  "  been  introduced 
into  America?  It  is  a  noble  pastime,  though  rather  con- 
ducive to  profane  swearing.  It  is  making  rapid  headway 
in  England — becoming  a  popular  craze,  indeed.  James 
I.,  who  carried  it  with  him  from  Scotland,  would  be  as- 
tounded at  the  number  of  clubs  and  associations  now 
springing  up  all  over  the  country.  Good-bye,  and  renewed 
thanks!  We  are  off  for  the  south  again  at  the  end  of  the 
month.  Please  give  our  kindest  regards  to  all  your  home 
circle.  Yours  very  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

The  picture  referred  to  above  was  a  painting  by 
Mr.  Lindsay  Mac  Arthur,  of  Oban,  which  Mr.  Harper 
had  commissioned  Black  to  purchase  for  him.  Mr. 
MacArthur  was  a  young  artist  in  whose  work  Black 
took  the  deepest  interest,  and  whose  fortunes  he  was 
always  anxious  to  promote. 

325 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

Black  was  engaged  at  this  time  in  revising  his 
works  for  publication  in  a  cheap  edition. 

To  W.  B.  Dean,  Esq. 

Brighton, 

February  5,  1892. 
MY  DEAR  SIR, — I  am  glad  you  approve  of  the  cheap 
edition,  though,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  labor  of  going 
over  those  earlier  works,  altering  phrases  here  and  there, 
and  in  some  cases  even  rewriting  whole  passages,  is  a 
desperate  business.  Had  I  known,  I  probably  should  not 
have  undertaken  it ;  now  I  am  bound  to  go  on.  Love  or 
Marriage  has  been  out  of  print  for  many  years.  I  drop- 
ped it,  not  on  account  of  any  views  it  propounded,  or  any 
"  social  problems  "  it  touched  (so  far  as  I  can  remember, 
it  did  neither  the  one  nor  the  other),  but  simply  because 
it  was  an  immature  and  unsatisfactory  production.  It 
is  not  the  only  one  of  my  early  novels  which  I  have  refused 
to  reprint  in  any  cheap  edition.  May  a  kindly  mother- 
earth  quietly  bury  the  originals  away  out  of  sight — turn- 
ing them  to  dust  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

William  Black. 

In  1892  a  rude  blow  was  struck  at  Black's  little 
circle  of  intimate  friends  and  companions.  In  the 
spring  of  that  year  James  Osgood  died,  after  an  ill- 
ness which  had  lasted  for  some  months.  Black's 
association  with  him  had  been  so  close  that  it  would 
be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  severity  of  the  loss 
thus  inflicted  on  him.  His  friends  had  for  some 
years  been  accustomed  to  see  him  chiefly  in  the  so- 
ciety of  Mr.  Osgood,  and  of  one  or  two  other  men 
who  belonged  to  the  same  little  circle.  I  think  that 
after  Osgood's  death  Black  never  cared  to  come  to 

326 


CRUISE    IN    THE    MEDITERRANEAN 

London  so  frequently  as  he  had  once  done,  and 
he  withdrew  more  and  more  from  general  society. 
This  withdrawal  was  not,  however,  altogether  due 
to  the  loss  of  old  friends  with  whom  he  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  associating.  He  himself  was  suffer- 
ing from  a  steady  decline  of  nervous  force  which 
made  him  feel  more  and  more  unequal  to  the  re- 
quirements of  social  life.  From  this  period  forward, 
indeed,  there  is  a  distressing  frequency  in  the  allu- 
sions in  his  letters  to  various  attacks  of  illness,  not 
always  serious  in  themselves,  but  quite  sufficient 
to  prevent  his  enjoyment  of  the  society  of  his  friends, 
and  to  forbid  his  visiting  London  for  months  at  a 
stretch.  It  is  noticeable,  however,  that  whatever 
his  physical  or  nervous  condition  might  be,  he  al- 
lowed nothing  to  interfere  with  what  had  now  be- 
come the  two  absorbing  interests  of  his  life — his 
work,  and  his  spring  fishing  in  Scotland.  In  1892 
he  did,  indeed,  give  himself  a  holiday  from  his  usual 
Scotch  visit.  He  once  more  went  for  a  cruise  in 
the  Mediterranean  with  his  wife  and  children.  He 
had  made  such  a  trip  in  1890,  going  as  far  as  the 
Crimea,  and  had  greatly  enjoyed  the  sea-life  and  the 
new  scenes  to  which  he  was  introduced.  Now  in 
1892  he  spent  two  months  in  a  cruise  about  the  Ital- 
ian shores  and  the  Greek  islands.  Just  as  his  former 
tour  had  provided  for  him  materials  which  he  used 
in  the  story  of  Wolfenberg,  so  this  second  and  last 
cruise  furnished  him  with  scenes  that  were  subse- 
quently described  in  Briseis. 

This  story,  however,  as  its  readers  will  recall, 
deals  also  with  some  of  the  familiar  Scottish  scenes 

327 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

which  to  the  last  were  dearer  to  him  than  the  beau- 
ties of  Greece  or  Italy.  His  spring  fishing  in  1894 
enabled  him  to  visit  Banchory  and  Spean  Bridge, 
and  these  places  gave  local  color  to  many  of  the 
scenes  in  Briseis. 

In  the  months  that  followed  James  Osgood's 
death,  other  sorrows  of  the  same  kind  fell  upon 
Black.  He  lost  his  old  friend,  John  Pettie,  the 
great  painter,  to  whom  he  had  long  been  bound 
by  ties  of  the  warmest  friendship.  Pettie  was  one 
of  the  most  constant  figures  at  the  dinner-parties 
which  Black  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  at  the 
Reform  Club — in  the  room  where,  before  his  day, 
Thackeray  had  been  wont  to  entertain  his  friends 
— and  on  many  less  formal  occasions  Black  and 
he  were  to  be  found  in  each  other's  company,  in 
the  chambers  at  Buckingham  Street,  or  at  the  pri- 
vate view  at  the  Royal  Academy.  Pettie's  death, 
following  at  too  short  an  interval  upon  that  of  Os- 
good, visibly  depressed  Black's  spirits.  Yet  a  lit- 
tle later  and  another  link  with  the  past  was  broken 
by  the  death  of  his  old  friend  and  colleague,  Will- 
iam Minto,  his  successor  in  the  editorship  of  the 
Examiner.  Minto  had  for  a  number  of  years  been 
settled  in  Aberdeen  as  Professor  of  Logic  at  the 
University  of  that  city,  but  he  paid  occasional  visits 
to  London,  and  Black  retained  his  old  regard  for  him. 

To  C.  W.  Mcllvaine. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

March  14,  1893. 
MY  DEAR  MclLVAINE, — I  am  sure  you  must  have  been 
very  much  shocked  by  the  news  of  poor  Minto's  death, 

328 


LOSS    OF    FRIENDS 

even  though  you  knew  he  was  seriously  ill.  They  say 
it  was  overwork,  which  I  cannot  understand,  for  the  Scotch 
professors  get  about  seven  months'  holiday  in  the  year. 
However,  there  is  another  irreparable  gap;  fancy  Osgood, 
Pettie,  and  Minto  within  so  short  a  time.  As  Hunter  says, 
"  Death  gets  the  pick."  How  are  all  the  boys  over  there? 
I  presume  you  have  seen  Alfred  Parsons.  Has  William 
Laffan  left  for  Europe?  Give  my  kindest  regards  to  J. 
W.  H.  and  to  J.  H.  H.  when  you  see  them,  and  tell  the 
latter  that  I  hope  the  storm  in  the  Besant  teacup  has  quieted 
down.  Dolly  is  getting  along  fairly  well ;  but  it  will  be  a 
tedious  recovery,  for  she  had  so  completely  outgrown  her 
strength,  with  her  brain  remaining  abnormally  active — 
that  is,  abnormally  as  regards  her  physical  condition ;  but 
I  have  got  Dunolly  in  the  west  Highlands  for  four  months 
(June  to  September),  and  she  will  get  all  right  there,  with 
the  freedom  of  the  woods  and  the  sea-shore.  I  am  off  on 
the  25th  for  a  month's  salmon-fishing  in  Ross-shire.  Back 
for  the  private  view  of  the  Academy,  when  we  may  fore- 
gather again  at  the  Reform. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 
To  Wemyss  Reid. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

December  18,  1893. 
MY  DEAR  REID,— I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  have  had 
another  touch  of  the  mysterious  pestilence,  and  hope  you 
are  quite  better.  "  My  little  lot,"  as  the  music-hall  song 
(quoted  by  Miss  Mabel  Black)  says,  has  been  simply  an 
overflow  of  blood  to  the  head,  which  nature  promptly 
relieved  by  giving  me  a  fortnight's  hemorrhage  from 
the  nose.  I  thereupon  followed  the  old  lady's  lead  by 
adopting  vegetarianism,  teetotalism,  and  entire  abstinence 
from  tobacco,  and  I'm  getting  all  right  again,  but  cursing 
Cassell   &   Company   for   not   continuing  that  extremely 

329 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

handy  edition  of  Scott's  novels  —  2s.,  in  scarlet  cloth — 
which  led  off  with  The  Antiquary.  I  am  told  they  have 
been  suffered  to  drop  out  of  print,  and  it  was  an  ideal 

edition  to  read  in  bed.     When and come  up  for 

election,  probably  both  on  the  same  day,  I  hope  you  will 
do  what  you  can  for  them.  I  fear  it  will  be  some  time  before 
I  get  up  to  London  again. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

To  Colin  Hunter. 

1893. 
DEAR  COLIN, — This  confounded  bleeding  at  the  nose 
keeps  recurring,  and  as  I  don't  want  you  to  find  yourself 
sitting  next  a  ghastly  and  gory  spectacle  at  the  Fly-fishers' 
to-morrow  evening,  I  am  writing  to  Morten  to  take  over 
my  responsibilities  as  host.  You  will  find  everything  ar- 
ranged, and  if,  in  the  mean  time,  a  few  ancient  chestnuts 
should  occur  to  me,  I  will  forward  them  on  for  your  delecta- 
tion. Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

In  an  earlier  chapter  I  have  mentioned  Black's 
friendship  for  the  artists  of  his  time,  and  the  unique 
place  which  they  seem  to  have  accorded  him  in  their 
affections.  With  Millais  and  Leighton  he  had  long 
been  on  terms  of  friendly  intimacy,  but  the  men 
whom  he  knew  best  and  with  wThom  he  was  most 
familiar  in  the  artistic  wrorld  were,  I  think,  his 
old  Glasgow  associate  Colin  Hunter,  John  Pettie, 
G.  H.  Boughton,  Alfred  Parsons,  and  Edwin  Abbey. 
Through  all  the  changes  of  his  later  years  he  clung 
to  these  distinguished  artists  like  a  brother;  and 
his  closeness  of  intimacy  with  them  was  in  no  way 
affected  by  his  absorption  in  the  American  circle 

330 


THE     CIRCLE     OF    ARTISTS 

of  which  I  have  spoken.  Year  by  year,  from  the 
days  of  A  Daughter  of  Heth  onward,  he  had  been 
one  of  the  constant  frequenters  of  the  private  views 
at  the  Royal  Academy.  He  seemed,  indeed,  to 
be  one  of  the  established  features  at  that  annual 
function,  always  greeting  his  friends  with  the  same 
quiet  heartiness  of  manner,  and  ever  to  be  found 
somewhere  in  the  neighborhood  of  Pettie  and  Hunter. 
No  man  ever  entered  more  completely  into  the  in- 
terests and  successes  of  his  artist  friends  than  Black 
did.  Nobody  was  more  anxious  as  to  their  fate  in 
each  recurring  exhibition;  no  one  rejoiced  more 
heartily  over  their  successes.  After  he  went  to  live 
in  Brighton,  he  made  it  a  point  every  year,  while 
his  health  permitted,  to  come  to  town  in  the  first 
week  in  May;  and  if  you  went  to  his  rooms  on  Var- 
nishing Day,  you  were  certain  to  find  there  a  select 
knot  of  painters  who  had  come  to  Buckingham 
Street  after  the  completion  of  their  labors  at  Bur- 
lington House.  All  the  talk  on  these  occasions  was 
of  art  and  artists,  and  it  was  then  that  Black  talked, 
with  the  brilliancy  I  have  mentioned  on  another 
page,  of  the  paintings  he  had  seen  and  admired. 
To  the  very  last,  the  London  season  seemed  for  him 
to  be  comprised  within  the  week  or  ten  days  im- 
mediately before  and  after  the  private  view,  and  no 
one  who  met  him  at  such  times  could  have  any  doubt 
that  on  one  side,  at  least,  of  his  sympathies  art  still 
held  the  first  place.  More  than  once  he  was  bidden 
to  that  high  feast  of  the  art-world,  the  Royal  Acad- 
emy banquet.  I  have  already  told  the  story  of  the 
way  in  which  two  of  his  neighbors,  on  one  of  these 

33i 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

occasions,  displayed  their  absolute  ignorance  of  his 
name  and  work.  Incidents  of  this  kind  amused  him 
greatly,  for  he  was  one  of  the  happy  men  whose 
freedom  from  vanity  saves  them  from  a  world  of 
annoyance  in  their  passage  through  life.  On  the 
Monday  following  the  Academy  banquet  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Royal  Academy  Club  always  hold  their 
annual  dinner.  Black  was  one  of  the  regular  guests 
at  this  delightful  entertainment,  and  here,  at  least, 
he  was  neither  unknown  nor  unappreciated.  One 
of  his  last  appearances  at  the  club  dinner  was  in 
1894,  and  the  following  letters  refer  to  that  inci- 
dent : 

To  Colin  Hunter. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

May  9,  1894. 
DEAR  COLIN, — I  really  must  write  and  tell  you  what  a 
pleasant  evening  Monday  was — the  pleasantest  I  ever 
spent  at  Greenwich.  Perhaps  there  was  the  added  con- 
sciousness that  you  had  just  sold  a  picture,  and  that  the 
president  had  promised  to  find  me  a  name  for  my  new 
heroine — a  modern  Greek  girl. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 
To  Miss  Morten. 

Paston  House,  BriCxHTon, 

May  9,  1894. 
MY  DEAR  DOLLY,— About  half  the  Royal  Academy 
were  up  at  Buckingham  Street  the  other  night,  after  the 
Greenwich  dinner,  and  here  is  the  ribald  rhyme  that  was 
being  handed  round.  It  was  a  great  evening,  for  Colin 
had  sold  a  picture,  and  the  president  had  promised  to 
find  me  a  fascinating  name  for  my  new  heroine,  who  is 

332 


LAST    VISIT    TO    THE    OYKEL 

a  modern  Greek  girl.  Hugh  has  just  sent  me  a  beautifully 
shaped  fresh-run  fish  of  fifteen  pounds  (no  doubt  sixteen 
pounds  when  he  caught  it).  It's  loathsome !  Why  doesn't 
your  father  skelp  away  up  there  to  the  inn? 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

(Enclosure.) 

Austin,  Austin,  Austin, 

Dobbie,  Dobbie,  Dobbie, 
Although  making  verses 

Seems  to  be  your  hobby, 
Stevenson  could  take  you 

And  Gosse  and  Andrew  Lang 
And  knock  your  heads  together — 

Bang — bang — bang  ! 

Briseis  was  the  name  which,  after  some  consid- 
eration, Sir  Frederick  Leighton  suggested  to  Black 
for  his  heroine,  and  it  was  by  this  name  that  the 
novel,  when  it  appeared,  was  called. 

In  1895  Black  went  for  the  last  time  for  the  spring 
fishing  on  the  Oykel.  He  was  not  in  good  health 
when  he  started,  but  the  old  love  was  strong  wTithin 
him,  and  the  stormy  north  called  him  yet  once  more. 
His  experiences  from  the  first  were  not  propitious. 

To  J.  G.  Morten. 

Lang  well  Lodge,  by  Lairg,  N.  B., 

Thursday, 
DEAR  MORTEN, — It's  well  for  you  you're  not  in  this 
confounded    place.     There's    nothing    here    but    howling 
gales  and  spates,  sleet,  hail,  snow,  and  the  most  unen- 
durable cold.     Our  communications  were  entirely  cut  off 

333 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

yesterday ;  the  men  dared  not  try  the  ferry,  and  the  wooden 
bridge  was  carried  away  last  autumn.  The  coals  you 
ordered  never  arrived,  so  I've  sent  for  some  to  Inverness ; 
but  I  think  we  shall  all  be  frozen  to  death  before  they  come. 
Parsons  and  I  played  poker  yesterday  from  10.30  A.M. 
till  11  P.M. ;  it  was  chiefly  because  poker  was  suggestive 
of  a  fire,  and  we  tried  to  get  warm  that  way.  This  morn- 
ing he  is  away  on  a  trap  to  Inver  Oykel ;  but  it's  absurd 
to  expect  fish  to  come  up  in  this  Arctic  weather. 

Yours  ever, 

William  Black. 

P.S. — After  all,  Hugh  and  I  ventured  out  this  after- 
noon, and  butted  ourselves  against  a  hurricane.  I  broke 
my  back  thrashing  torrents;  then  Hughie  managed  to 
hook  a  perfect  devil  of  a  fish  in  the  Long  Pool,  then  he 
(the  fish)  went  careering  over  the  falls  into  the  Rock  Pool, 
where  he  died  the  death.  By  guess-work  he  is  about  ten 
and  a  half  or  eleven  pounds ;  so  I  think  I  will  send  him 
to  you  to-morrow,  as  you  have  a  family  with  large  appetites, 
while  the  Paston  House  people  can't  eat  worth  a  cent.  You 
might  ask  for  him  at  Richmond  Station  on  Sunday ;  per- 
haps they  don't  forward  on  Sunday  like  the  London  com- 
panies. Parsons  just  back — seen  nothing  ;  raining  in  tor- 
rents ;  another  spate  on.  God  help  us  all — this  is  a  fearful 
country. 

One  of  his  intimate  friends  was  Mr.  R.  B.  Mars- 
ton,  the  son  and  partner  of  his  English  publish- 
er, Mr.  Edward  Marston.  For  both  the  Marstons 
Black  entertained  a  warm  feeling  of  esteem,  while 
Mr.  Robert  Marston  claimed  his  special  sympathy 
because  of  his  well-known  enthusiasm  as  a  fisher- 
man. On  not  a  few  occasions  Black  received  him 
as  a  guest  at  Langwell  Lodge  and  Oykel  Bridge, 

334 


SERIOUS    ILLNESS 

and  their  common  interests  as  author  and  publisher 
were  strengthened  by  their  community  of  taste  in 
the  matter  of  sport. 

To  Robert  Marston,  Esq. 

Oykel  Bridge, 

April  22,  1895. 
MY  DEAR  MARSTON,— I  have  been  so  ill  since  I  came 
here  with  the  return  of  the  Flue  that  I  could  not  write  and 
thank  you  for  your  great  kindness  with  regard  to  that 
Northern  Syndicate.  I  think  you  acted  most  judicially. 
Morten  has  done  very  well  this  year  on  the  river;  but  I 
have  had  to  spend  most  of  my  time  lying  on  a  sofa,  and 
now,  though  I  am  getting  a  bit  better,  I  can  hardly  write.  . . . 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

As  the  above  letter  indicates,  before  he  had  been 
long  at  Langwell  Lodge  he  had  a  return  of  one  of 
his  frequent  illnesses,  and  it  assumed  a  serious 
form.  His  wife  was  summoned  to  him,  and  she 
nursed  him  back  to  health — a  slow  and  tedious 
process.  He  returned  for  a  short  time  to  Brighton, 
and  then  in  the  summer  went  to  Inverness  to  re- 
cruit. He  was  weak  and  suffering,  but  his  work 
went  on  just  the  same.  His  illness  had  been  noticed 
in  the  papers,  and  the  announcement  brought  many 
letters  of  sympathy  and  inquiry.  One  of  them  I 
shall  quote.     It  is  from  a  Scots  school-master: 

HONORED  SIR  (wrote  his  correspondent,  May  I,  1895), 
— I  am  deeply  grieved  to  see  from  yesterday's  paper  that 
you  are  lying  ill  in  a  lonely  place  in  the  far  north.  I  know 
you  through  your  novels  ;  but  that  is  enough  for  me.  Deep- 
ly as  I  deplore  the  loss  of  Blackie,  I  thank  God  we  have 

335 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

still  Black.  May  you  soon  recover  and  add  still  another 
volume  to  that  long  list  of  masterpieces  (e.g.,  Madcap 
Violet).  Here  am  I  off  duty  as  teacher,  confined  to  bed 
for  weeks  with  sickness,  but  hoping  soon  to  bask  again 
in  nature's  smiles,  and  "teach  the  young  idea  how  to 
shoot."  If  I  could  only  hear  that  you  are  not  very  ill,  I 
would  be  so  glad.  "  A  merry  heart  does  good  like  a  med- 
icine."    Robin  says: 

"  The  hert's  aye  the  pairt,  aye, 
That  maks  us  richt  or  wrang." 

Excuse  pencil  and  this  note,  which  the  projanum  vulgus 
would  call  insanity. 
I  am, 

Your  well-wisher  and  sincere  admirer, 


In  the  autumn  of  the  year  1895  Black  was  back 
again  at  Brighton,  taking  his  usual  walks,  so  far 
as  his  strength  permitted,  and  working  with  his 
customary  energy  at  his  new  story,  which  was  to 
be  his  last,  Wild  Eelin.  He  came  but  seldom  to  Lon- 
don at  this  time,  and  when  he  did  so  none  of  those 
who  knew  and  loved  him  could  fail  to  see  how  he 
was  aged,  and  how  his  nervous  force  had  been  weak- 
ened until  it  seemed  to  be  almost  spent.  His  hair 
was  plentifully  streaked  with  gray,  and  even  in  the 
company  of  his  friends  he  was  strangely  subdued. 
But  he  made  few  complaints,  and  resolutely  pur- 
sued his  way  as  he  had  done  in  his  prime. 

To  Mr.  Crerar. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

December,  1895. 
MY  DEAR  CRERAR,— We  all  thank  you  most  heartily 
for  the  welcome  packet  of  books ;  but  why  don't  you  send 

336 


"THE    BANKS    OF    LOCH    LOMOND" 

us  any  news  of  yourself?  I  duly  received  the  "  snap  " 
photograph,  but  couldn't  make  you  out.  By-the-way,  do 
you  happen  to  know  a  collection  of  Scotch  songs,  "  The 
Minstrelsy  of  Scotland,"  collected  by  Alfred  Moffat?  If 
you  don't,  I  shall  be  glad  to  send  you  a  copy.  But  why 
I  ask  chiefly  is  that  in  this  volume  he  gives  a  curious  story 
about  the  finding  of  "  The  Banks  of  Loch  Lomond  "  by 
a  Lady  John  Scott,  and  I  should  so  like  to  know  if  you 
ever  heard  the  original.  The  present  version,  which  has 
attained  great  popularity  in  this  country,  is  impertinently 
spurious  on  the  face  of  it — 

"  Where  in  purple  hue  the  Hieland  hills  we  view!" 

But  the  refrain, 

"  And  ye'll  tak  the  high  road," 

etc. ,  is  apparently  genuine  and  very  fine.  When  you  write 
let  me  hear  something  more  of  yourself. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

P.S. — Lady  Francis  Cecil,  who  is  a  sister-in-law  of  the 
Marquis  of  Huntley  (the  "Cock  o'  the  North  "),  has  just 
been  so  kind  as  to  offer  me  some  legends  and  rhymes  of 
Deeside,  which  is  extremely  provoking,  as  I  have  finished 
my  Deeside  story. 

To  Colin  Hunter. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

January  13th. 
DEAR  COLIN, — I  am  going  to  try  to  crawl  up  to  London 
on  Friday  afternoon  next,  to  look  at  Abbey's  show  the 
next  morning.  If  you  are  not  engaged  on  the  Friday 
evening,  will  you  come  along  to  the  Reform?  We  might 
have  a  crust  of  bread  together,  and  a  glass  of  filtered  water. 

Ever  yours, 

William  Black. 

337 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

The  following  letter,  which  may  not  inappro- 
priately be  inserted  on  this  page,  refers  to  a  little 
article  he  had  written  describing  an  interview  which 
he  had  in  the  heyday  of  his  early  fame  with  Thomas 
Carlyle.  He  was  fond  of  telling  this  story  to  his 
friends,  and  of  repeating  with  gusto  the  question 
which  the  great  man,  after  complimenting  him 
upon  his  stories,  and  especially  upon  The  Strange 
Adventures  of  a  Phaeton,  had  addressed  to  him: 
"  And  when  are  ye  going  to  do  anything  serious?" 
As  I  have  said,  Black  was  too  free  from  vanity 
to  be  hurt  by  a  remark  which  would  have  offended 
some. 

To  Sir  John  R.  Robinson. 

Paston  House,  Brighton, 

November  6th. 

MY  DEAR  ROBINSON, — Perhaps  the  Carlyle  project 
had  better  drop.  I  should  not  like  to  append  my  name 
in  full;  for  my  object  was  not  to  seek  notoriety  for  myself, 
but  to  give  the  public  some  interesting  memoranda  about 
a  great  man.  I  should  not  like  to  place  myself  in  the 
same  category  with and  ,  who  have  been  bat- 
tening on 's  dead    body   ever    since  the   poor   chap 

died.  Was  there  ever  anybody  so  treated  by  both  relatives 
and  friends?    Hardly  had  the  telegram  announcing  his 

death  reached  London  when  and  were  racing 

each  other  in  hansoms  down  to  the  Times   office  to  get 

's  last  letters  to  them  printed.     Then  came  the  awful 

picture — the  dead  man  with  his  arms  propped  up  in  bed, 
and  his  fingers  clasped  as  if  in  prayer — to  be  photographed 
for  publication.  And  then  actually  his  private  form  of 
devotion  was  supplied  to  the  papers,  and  they  printed  that 

338 


SCORN    OF     AFFECTATION 

horrible  piece  of  affectation  in  which  he  so  plainly  said: 
"  Look  here,  God,  isn't  this  a  nice  bit  of  English?" 
I  don't  want  to  come  into  that  crowd. 

Yours  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

I  should  not  have  printed  this  letter  but  for  the 
light  which  it  throws  upon  my  friend's  own  char- 
acter. The  almost  savage  scorn  with  which  he  re- 
garded affectation,  whether  in  great  writers  or  the 
humblest  of  the  people  about  him,  was  all  through 
his  life  one  of  his  distinguishing  characteristics. 
He  himself  had  never  posed — never  from  his  ear- 
liest days  to  his  last.  He  went,  indeed,  to  the  other 
extreme.  If  he  did  his  work  conscientiously  and 
thoroughly,  as  was  undoubtedly  the  case,  he  left 
it  to  speak  for  itself,  and  never  invited  the  admira- 
tion of  his  friends  or  the  outside  world.  He  may 
have  been  wrong  to  treat  the  critics  as  he  did;  but 
his  indifference  to  their  praise  and  blame  wTas  a  real 
indifference,  and  a  most  manly  one.  He  never 
aspired  to  set  up  a  school,  or  to  attach  himself  to 
one,  and  he  hated  all  mutual  admiration  cliques. 
Some  may  be  startled  by  the  strength  of  his  indig- 
nation at  the  posturing  and  posing  from  which  even 
a  death-bed  was  not  free,  but  it  came  from  his  heart, 
and  it  is  right  that  the  world  should  know  it.  In 
nothing  is  this  outburst  of  feeling  more  character- 
istic than  in  the  words  which  speak  of  the  prayer 
given  to  the  public  almost  simultaneously  with  the 
announcement  of  its  writer's  death.  In  Black's 
earliest  days,  in  his  home  in  Glasgow,  he  had  been 

339 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

taught  that  it  was  weak,  unmanly,  almost  immoral, 
to  allow  the  hidden  emotions  of  the  heart  to  be  be- 
trayed, although  only  in  the  intimacy  of  the  family 
circle.  So  strictly  was  this  rule  observed  in  the 
Puritan  household  that  it  was  applied  even  to  the 
display  of  family  affection.  It  was  applied  in  a 
thousand  times  greater  force  to  those  more  sacred 
feelings  and  emotions  connected  with  religion  and 
the  things  of  the  soul.  In  later  years  the  traces 
of  this  earliest  tradition  of  his  life  were  readily  to 
be  discovered  by  all  who  met  him.  The  reticence 
and  reserve  of  which  I  have  so  often  had  to  speak 
in  writing  of  him  were,  in  a  great  measure,  the  fruit 
of  this  early  training.  To  the  very  last  he  remained, 
in  one  respect,  what  he  had  been  as  a  boy.  He  could 
never  speak  with  the  freedom  that  some  practise 
on  questions  of  religion.  Those  who  were  nearest 
to  him  knew  that  he  thought  deeply  upon  such  ques- 
tions— knew,  also,  that  if  he  had  long  since  emerged 
from  the  narrow  limitations  of  the  creed  of  his  child- 
hood, he  was  yet  a  man  possessed  by  a  strong  sense 
of  the  serious  side  of  existence,  and  by  that  spirit 
of  reverence  for  unseen  things  eternal  in  the  heavens 
which  may  be  described  as  the  very  essence  of  true 
religion.  But  to  speak  of  such  matters  was  im- 
possible to  him — impossible  even  in  the  presence 
of  his  dearest  friends.  The  iron  yoke  of  his  race 
was  laid  upon  his  soul,  so  far  as  all  such  things 
were  concerned,  condemning  him  to  a  silence  that 
was  nearly,  if  not  quite,  unbroken.  One  can  well 
imagine,  therefore,  how  hateful  seemed  to  him  the 
opening  of  the  heart's  innermost  recesses  and  most 

340 


HIS     RELIGIOUS     VIEWS 

sacred  emotions  in  order  to  satisfy  the  insatiable 
curiosity  of  a  vulgar  world.  Of  course,  Black's  gen- 
uine shrinking  from  the  kind  of  publicity  which 
seems  to  be  the  breath  of  life  to  some  modern  writers 
has  not  simplified  the  task  of  his  biographer.  The 
letters  which  he  wrote  to  his  friends — and  I  have 
read  more  than  a  thousand  of  them — were  not  written 
with  an  eye  to  ultimate  publication,  as  the  reader 
must  have  discovered  from  the  specimens  printed 
in  these  pages.  It  was  rarely  that  in  writing,  even 
to  his  intimate  friends,  he  gave  free  vent  to  his  feel- 
ings as  in  the  letter  to  Sir  John  Robinson.  But 
those  who  knew  him  intimately  can  bear  testimony 
to  the  fact  that  such  outpourings  of  his  innermost 
feelings  were  not  uncommon  when  he  was  in  the 
company  of  men  whom  he  trusted.  And  what  a 
contrast  he  presented  at  such  times  to  the  Black  of 
every-day  life! 

His  own  religious  views  may  be  gathered  best 
from  his  story  of  In  Far  Lochaber.  It  was  written 
in  the  fulness  of  his  maturity,  and  in  it  he  discusses 
with  unwonted  frankness  some  of  the  great  prob- 
lems of  religion.  The  story  is  that  of  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  Presbyterian  minister  who  becomes  attached 
to  a  man,  and  all  but  betrothed  to  him,  before  she 
learns  that  he  is  a  Roman  Catholic.  The  girl  has 
been  brought  up  in  the  strictest  of  Calvinistic  house- 
holds, where  life  is  tinged  by  the  severity  of  a  stern 
creed,  and  even  the  most  innocent  of  pleasures  are 
forbidden.  Her  first  awakening  from  the  rigid  Pu- 
ritanism of  her  early  home  comes  when  she  visits 
a  family  of  distant  relatives  in  the  Highlands,  and 

34i 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

discovers  that  with  them  life  is  a  thousand  times 
more  pleasant  than  in  the  form  in  which  she  had 
known  it.  "Here  was  no  studied  mortification  of 
all  natural  enjoyment,  no  constant  and  anxious 
introspection,  no  dwelling  upon  death  and  judgment 
as  the  only  subjects  worthy  of  human  concern.  The 
ordinary  incidents  of  the  day  seemed  to  be  for  them 
sufficient.  A  prevailing  cheerfulness  and  good- 
humor  attended  both  their  occupations  and  their 
amusements,  and  if  there  were  sharp  words  at  times 
— especially  when  Aunt  Gilchrist's  peripheral  neu- 
ralgia was  wandering  around — these  sharp  words 
left  no  morbid  sting."  Above  all,  in  this  new  home- 
life,  where  dogmatic  theology  was  unknown,  there 
was  a  great  kindliness  of  feeling,  and  everybody 
was  unselfish.  It  is  the  contrast  between  the  atmos- 
phere of  her  early  home  and  that  of  her  new  one 
which  first  leads  the  girl  to  think  for  herself  on  the 
nature  of  true  religion,  and  enables  her,  when  the 
time  comes,  to  determine  of  her  own  free  will  the 
question  of  whether  a  difference  of  creeds  ought  to 
put  an  end  to  a  strong  mutual  love.  Black  was 
thinking  of  his  own  early  days  in  his  home  in  Glas- 
gow when  he  wrote  the  story  of  his  heroine's  experi- 
ences— just  as  he  drew  the  sufferings  of  Aunt  Gil- 
christ from  peripheral  neuralgia  from  his  own  tort- 
ures from  the  same  disease.  As  I  pointed  out  on 
a  former  page,  the  influence  of  the  strict  Calvin- 
ism in  which  he  was  brought  up  was  strong  upon 
him  when  he  wrote  his  first  book,  James  Merle. 
It  had  ceased  to  be  anything  but  a  memory  when 
he  wrote  In  Far  Lochaber,  and  steeped  the  story 

342 


REVOLT     FROM     PURITANISM 

in  that  atmosphere  of  love  and  good-will  and  un- 
selfishness in  which  he  had  come  to  recognize 
the  essence  of  genuine  religion.  No  doubt  to  some 
it  will  seem  that  he  had  wandered  from  the  truth 
in  thus  turning  his  back  upon  a  narrow  and  gloomy 
creed,  but  there  are  many  who  will  feel  with  him 
that  in  abandoning  the  stern  doctrines  of  his  child- 
hood he  had  entered  upon  a  life  not  only  fuller  and 
more  joyous,  but  far  nearer  to  his  own  ideal  of  the 
truth.  Let  it  be  understood  that  in  writing  of  the 
Presbyterian  household,  in  which  every  natural 
instinct  was  repressed  as  being  in  itself  something 
lawless,  he  never  used  any  language  that  was  scorn- 
ful or  contemptuous,  but  wrote  as  reverently  of  the 
father  who  held  that  he  could  not  love  God  truly 
if  he  showed  any  demonstrative  affection  for  his 
children  as  if  he  had  himself  believed  in  that  ter- 
rible doctrine.  Yet  his  own  idea  of  religion  was 
more  nearly  summed  up  in  the  saying  of  the  Apostle 
James  than  in  any  of  the  writings  of  dogmatic  theo- 
logians, from  Calvin  downward. 

In  1896  he  paid  his  last  visit  to  Scotland,  Inver- 
ness being  the  scene  of  his  summer  holiday.  In 
the  spring  he  had  stayed  at  Norwood  for  some  time, 
not  far  from  his  old  home  on  Denmark  Hill  and  the 
scenes  he  had  described  so  minutely  in  Madcap 
Violet.  In  the  winter  he  returned  to  Brighton, 
and  to  work  upon  Wild  Eelin.  But  his  health  was 
visibly  declining,  and  though  the  power  of  work 
had  not  left  him,  he  found  it  more  difficult  to  get 
through  his  task  than  he  had  ever  done  before.  In 
1897,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  taken  up  his 

343 


WILLIAM    BLACK 

abode  in  England,  he  had  neither  spring  nor  sum- 
mer holiday,  but  spent  the  whole  year  in  Brighton. 
He  came  but  seldom  to  London,  and  was  then  care- 
ful to  avoid  any  exciting  scenes  or  large  gather- 
ings. In  the  early  part  of  1898  he  wrote  an  autobi- 
ographical paper,  entitled,  "  With  the  Eyes  of  Youth," 
for  an  American  periodical.  It  was  a  touching 
and  delightful  sketch,  which  brought  back  to  those 
who  knew  him  many  memories  of  his  early  days. 
This  short  article  was  the  last  work  that  he  was 
able  to  complete. 

To  Robert  Marston,  Esq. 

Brighton, 

January  2,  1898. 

MY  DEAR  MARSTON, — You  may  be  sure  that  your  kindly 

wishes  for  the  New  Year  are  heartily  reciprocated  by  this 

household,  who  also  wish  me  to  thank  you  for  the  welcome 

present  of  books.     I  fear  that  a  book,  and  a  chair  near 

the  fire,  are  more  in  my  way  now  than  salmon-fishing; 

but  who  knows?     Morten  has  been  making  little  inquiries 

here  and  there. 

Yours  most  sincerely, 

William  Black. 

In  the  summer,  after  a  holiday  at  Horsted  Keynes, 
in  Sussex,  he  made  an  attempt  to  begin  a  new  novel, 
the  plot  of  which  he  had  already  woven  ;  but  he  never 
got  further  than  the  title,  Cherry,  and  a  four-lined 
verse  which  he  wrote  as  heading  to  the  first  chapter. 

In  the  month  of  August,  on  going  into  the  Reform 
Club  one  day  for  luncheon,  I  was  surprised  to  see 
him  in  his  old  seat  at  the  familiar  table.  He  had 
not  occupied  it  for  several  years,  and  since  he  had 

344 


LAST     APPEARANCE     IN     LONDON 

last  been  there  James  Payn,  who  always  used  to 
sit  in  the  chair  next  to  Black's,  had  died.  I  wel- 
comed with  joy  his  return  to  the  old  place.  But 
quickly  the  shattered  state  of  his  health  forced  it- 
self upon  my  notice.  Since  I  had  seen  him  last  he 
seemed  to  have  become  almost  an  old  man.  The 
dark-brown  hair  was  turned  to  gray;  the  nervous 
energy  which  had  once  distinguished  him  in  all  his 
acts  and  sayings  was  gone;  his  voice  had  lost  its 
old  resonance,  and  his  speech  was  weak  and  slow. 
It  was  a  pathetic  sight.  Yet  in  many  respects  he 
showed  himself  to  be  the  Black  whom  I  had  known 
in  long-past  years,  and  he  talked  of  old  friends  and 
old  days  with  a  depth  of  interest  and  affection  that 
proved  that  his  heart,  at  least,  had  undergone  no 
change.  We  went  up  to  the  smoking-room  after 
luncheon,  and  he  sat  beside  me  talking  for  some 
time  about  scenes  and  people  of  the  past.  But  his 
weakness  was  great,  and  by-and-by  he  shook  hands 
with  me  and  went  away,  apparently  exhausted  by 
the  exertion  of  conversation.  That  was  the  last 
visit  he  paid  to  the  Reform  Club,  in  which  he  had 
been  for  so  many  years  a  prominent  figure;  his  last 
appearance  in  London,  which  he  had  entered  first 
as  an  unknown  youth,  and  where  he  had  risen  so 
high  in  fame ;  and  the  last  time  I  ever  saw  him. 

During  those  last  years  of  slow  but  continuous 
decline  he  was  not  without  some  consolations  that 
cheered  him  greatly  in  spite  of  physical  pain  and 
weakness.  He  still  had  constant  assurance  of  the 
fact  that  he  was  not  forgotten  by  the  outer  world. 
To  the  very  last  he  continued  to  command  his  own 

345 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

terms  with  the  publishers,  and  whatever  might  be 
said  or  left  unsaid  by  the  critics,  his  own  circle  of 
readers  at  home  was  faithful  to  him,  while  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic  it  continued  to  grow  to 
the  day  of  his  death.  Moreover,  the  postman  still 
brought  to  Paston  House  those  letters  from  un- 
known friends  which  made  him  feel  that,  after  all, 
his  work  had  not  been  in  vain,  so  far  as  it  had  en- 
abled him  to  touch  the  hearts  and  win  the  love  of 
multitudes  whom  he  never  met  in  the  flesh.  Here, 
for  example,  is  a  letter  from  Cleveland,  Ohio,  dated 
February  26,  1898 : 

William  Black,  Esq. 

DEAR  SIR, — This  is  my  letter  of  thanks  for  the  great 
pleasure  you  have  given  me.  For  six  weeks  I  have  been 
in  bed.  On  my  bed  in  this  time  have  been  from  one  to 
three  of  your  books.  I  read  until  weary,  then  dream — 
and  read  again.  I  thank  you  for  the  yachting  cruises, 
where  I  have  gone  with  you.  I  thank  you  for  the  pleasant 
acquaintance  you  have  given  me  with  most  delightful 
people,  whom,  but  for  you,  I  should  never  have  known. 
I  thank  you  for  helping  me  through  these  weary  weeks. 
I  thank  God  for  sending  you  into  this  world. 

Respectfully  yours, 

J.  F.  R. 

The  man  who  wrote  thus  from  his  own  sick-bed 
undoubtedly  brought  comfort  and  joy  to  the  bed  of 
the  man  whom  he  addressed. 

The  end  came,  after  a  long  period  of  suffering 
and  complete  withdrawal  from  the  world,  on  Satur- 
day, the  10th  of  December,  1898.  He  had  just  com- 
pleted   his    fifty-seventh    year.     On    the    following 

346 


THE     LAST     SCENE 

Thursday  he  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  church-yard  at 
Rottingdean,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  hours 
of  quiet  happiness  in  other  days.  The  grave  of 
Sir  Edward  Burne -Jones  is  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
spot  where  Black  was  laid,  and  the  sound  of  the  sea 
which  he  loved  may  always  be  heard  from  the  quiet 
resting-place.  Among  those  who  accompanied  his 
body  from  Paston  House  to  Rottingdean  were  not 
a  few  who  had  been  Black's  companions  in  the  old 
days  when  he  delighted  in  this  walk  along  the 
cliff — his  brother-in-law  Morten,  Colin  Hunter,  Sir 
Robert  Giffen,  E.  D.  J.  Wilson,  Sir  John  Robinson, 
Leatham  Bright,  Clarence  Mcllvaine,  and  the  pres- 
ent writer.  At  the  side  of  the  grave  Mr.  Rudyard 
Kipling  paid  a  last  tribute  of  respect  to  a  man  whose 
name  had  become  known  wherever  English  works 
of  fiction  are  read,  and  who,  in  his  own  method  and 
style,  and  with  his  essential  limitations,  had  won 
a  reputation  hardly  inferior  to  that  of  any  of  his 
contemporaries.  But  those  who  stood  beside  Black's 
open  grave  on  that  mild  December  day  when  they 
parted  from  him,  the  old  friends  and  comrades  who 
had  known  him  in  obscurity  and  in  fame,  in  strength 
and  in  weakness,  were  not  thinking  so  much  of  the 
writer  whose  name  had  won  world-wide  recognition, 
as  of  the  man.  And  there  was  not  one  of  them  who 
did  not  feel  that  they  were  taking  a  last  farewell 
of  one  of  the  purest,  manliest,  most  chivalrous  souls 
the  world  has  ever  known. 

Black's   death    drew   many    tributes    to    his    tal- 
ents as  a  writer  and  the  character  of  his  books  from 

347 


WILLIAM     BLACK 

the  press.  But  better  than  any  appreciations  of 
this  kind — better  because  furnishing  a  more  trust- 
worthy proof  of  his  exceptional  place  in  the  esteem 
of  the  reading  world — was  the  desire  expressed  by 
his  admirers  for  the  erection  of  some  memorial  of 
the  affection  and  regard  which  he  had  inspired.  A 
spontaneous  movement  among  his  readers  in  Great 
Britain  and  the  United  States  led  to  the  formation 
of  a  "William  Black  Memorial  Committee,"  under 
the  presidency  of  Lord  Archibald  Campbell.  The 
subscriptions  received  by  this  committee  have  been 
expended  in  the  erection  of  a  beacon-light  on  Duart 
Point  in  the  Sound  of  Mull.  The  light-house  tower, 
which  bears  an  inscription  to  his  memory,  was  erect- 
ed from  designs  by  Mr.  William  Leiper,  R.S.A.,  and 
has  now  been  taken  over  by  the  Northern  Lights 
Commissioners,  to  be  maintained  by  them  in  per- 
petuity. The  new  beacon  casts  its  rays  over  the 
waters  where,  in  Black's  most  powerful  story,  the 
yacht  of  Macleod  of  Dare  went  down,  and  all  around 
it  are  scenes  which  have  not  only  been  described 
again  and  again  in  his  glowing  pages,  but  amid 
which  many  of  the  happiest  hours  of  his  own  life 
were  spent.  Tt  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  a  more 
appropriate  memorial  to  one  whose  pen  was  the 
first  to  bring  to  light  the  glories  of  the  Hebrides, 
nor  could  a  more  fitting  spot  have  been  found  on 
which  to  place  it. 


INDEX 


A  Daughter  of  Heth,  success 
of,  1—4  ;  remarks  on,  75—80  ; 
published  anonymously,  81  ; 
praised  by  Saturday  Revieiv, 
84,  85 ;  instantaneous  popu- 
larity of,  85-87. 

Abbey,  Mr.  E.  A.,  228,  263,  264, 
277,  293. 

American    copyright,  321-323. 

Anderson,  Miss  Mary,  276,  287  ; 
heroine  of  Strange  Advent- 
ures of  a  House-boat,  293, 300— 

302,  309- 
Anderson,  Mr.  Joseph,  289. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  263. 

Barry,  Mr.  William,  59,  69,  70, 
86,  109,  no,  121--123,  136, 
137,  226 ;  hero  of  Shandon 
Bells,  233. 

Bates,  Mr.  John  Cumming,  247. 

Besant,  Sir  Walter,  323. 

Black,  James,  brother  of  Will- 
iam Black,  9,  30. 

Black,   Miss    Mabel,    228,   276, 

329- 

Black,  Mr. James,  father  ofWill- 
iain  Black,   9,    12,    13,   26. 

Black,  Mrs.  James,  mother  of 
William  Black,  9,  32,  138. 

Black,  Mrs.  William  (Miss  Wen- 
zel),  44. 

Black,  Mrs.  William  (Miss 
Simpson),  177,  192,  197,  210, 
211,  222,  258,  273,  277,  278, 
279,  282,  287,  292,  301,  323, 
335. 

Black,     William,     joins    Daily 


News,  3;  popularity  of  early 
novels,  5 ;  public  curiosity,  5, 
6  ;  birth,  7 ;  ancestry,  7-9  ;  his 
mother,  9,  10;  his  school- 
days, 10—12;  his  love  of  art, 
11 ;  his  father,  12,  13  ;  earliest 
writings,  14;  connection  with 
Glasgow  Weekly  Citizen,  15, 
16 ;  recollections  of,  by  Sir 
Robert  Giffen,  16;  early 
poetry,  18 ;  his  friends,  19—21  ; 
early  romance,  29,  30;  re- 
moval to  London,  31 ;  accepts 
clerkship,  32  ;  friendship  with 
Mr.  Williams,  36 ;  career  in 
Birchin  Lane,  37  ;  joins  Morn- 
ing Star,  39 ;  edits  London 
Review,  40 ;  edits  Examiner, 
41  ;  marries,  43  ;  birth  of  son, 
44  ;  death  of  wife,  44  ;  follows 
the  Prussian  army,  46,  47 ; 
reminiscences  of,  by  Mr. 
E.  D.  J.  Wilson,  48-51 ;  col- 
leagues on  Morning  Star,  55  ; 
strength  of  likes  and  dislikes, 
57  ;  reminiscences  of,  by  Mr. 
William  Senior,  59,  60 ;  quick- 
ness in  writing,  60 ;  connec- 
tion with  Daily  News,  67—70 ; 
friendship  for  William  Barry, 
69,  70  ;  death  of  son,  72 ;  first 
seven  years  in  London,  72— 
74 ;  popularity  of,  85-90  ; 
drives  to  Edinburgh  in  phae- 
ton, 93—95 ;  becomes  familiar 
figure  in  art  circles,  99 ;  re- 
moves from  Catherine  Ter- 
race   to    Airlie    House,    99 ; 


349 


INDEX 


meets  Mr.  and  Miss  Simpson, 
101 ;  visits  Highlands,  102  ; 
claimed  as  a  nephew,  107 ; 
visits  Switzerland,  118; 
writes  for  Leeds  Mercury, 
121,  123  ;  married,  129  ;  joins 
Reform  Club,  129 ;  visits 
Germany,  135;  resigns  reg- 
ular work  with  Daily  News, 
138;  visits  United  States, 
146-150;  thought  to  be  au- 
thor of  Lorna  Doone,  149 ; 
first  signs  of  break-down,  1 57  ; 
visits  Highlands,  158,  160  ; 
visits  Scotland,  160,  172; 
visits  Oban  with  family,  176  ; 
defends  himself  in  Daily 
News,  182—186;  removes  to 
Brighton,  190;  takes  cham- 
bers in  Buckingham  Street, 
Strand,  193-195  ;  his  favorite 
promenades  at  Brighton,  205, 
206  ;  method  of  working,  210— 
213  ;  visits  Leeds,  224  ;  visits 
Ireland, 227,228  ;  takes  family 
to  Lerags,  228;  visits  Egypt, 
236-238 ;  visits  Stronelairg, 
238 ;  his  growing  popularity 
in  America,  252  ;  visits  Altna- 
harra,  257 ;  his  love  of  fish- 
ing, 258-261 ;  his  love  for  his 
household,  273—276 ;  appears 
on  the  stage,  280—283  '>  makes 
inland  voyage,  293-295;  his 
first  intimation  of  suffering, 
298 ;  writes  humorous  verses 
on  a  tour  to  Canterbur}^  316  ; 
his  readiness  to  assist  others, 
319;  defends  Messrs.  Har- 
pers, 323;  visits  Mediter- 
ranean with  family,  327  ;  de- 
pressed by  death  of  friends, 
328 ;  sympathies  with  art, 
331 ;  illness  noticed  in  papers, 
335;  his  story  of  Thomas 
Carlyle,  338 ;  his  reserve  and 
scorn  of  affectation,  339—341 ; 
last  visit  to  Scotland,  343 ; 
last   completed   article,    344  ; 


last  visit  to  the  Reform  Club, 

345  ;  his  death,  346. 
Bowker,   Mr.  R.  R.,  227,   231, 

234,  253,  293,  295. 
Bradbury,    Mr.,    reminiscences 

of  Black,  246—249. 
Brighton,    Black    removes    to, 

190 ;  favorite  promenades  at, 

205-207. 
Briseis,  304,  328,  333. 
Brunton,  Sir  Lauder,  146,  153, 

180,  197,  229,  230,  255,  299, 

313. 
Buchanan,  Mr.  Robert,  21,  33- 

36-. 
Buckingham      Street,      Black 

takes  chambers  in  a  famous 

house  in,  193—195. 

Campbell,  Mr.  John,  290,  291. 
Chapman  &  Hall,  Messrs.,  and 

James  Merle,  28,   29. 
Cherry,  a  contemplated  novel, 

344-. 

Comhill  Magazine,  Three  Feath- 
ers published  in,  135  ;  White 
Wings  published  in,   196. 

Craik,  Mr.  G.  L.,   146. 

Crerar,  Mr.,  154,  176,  177,  198, 
221,  222,  223,  263,  302,  309, 
3io,  336,  337- 

Daily  Chronicle,  321. 

Daily  Graphic,  Black's  letter  to 
the  editor  of,  265-271. 

Daily  Neivs,  Black  joins,  3 ; 
Black's  connection  with,  67— 
71 ;  resigns  regular  work  on, 
138 ;  defends  himself  in,  182— 
186. 

Dean,  Mr.  W.  B.,  326. 

Detroit  Free  Press,  Black  con- 
tradicts story  in,  289,  290. 

Donald  Ross  of  Heimra,   257, 

304,  321. 
Dymond,  Mr.  Alfred  Hutchin- 
son, 39. 

Egypt,   Black  visits,   236—238. 


350 


INDEX 


Examiner,  The,  Black  edits,  41 ; 
Green  Pastures  and  Picca- 
dilly published  in,  156. 

Garfield,  President,  Message 
from,  to  Black,  235. 

Germany,  Black  visits,   135. 

Gibbon,  Mr.   Charles,   21,   123. 

Giffen,  Sir  Robert,  reminis- 
cences of  Black  by,   16,  22, 

38,  93,  347- 

Glasgow  Herald,  A  Daughter 
of  Heth  published  in,  80. 

Glasgow  Weekly  Citizen,  Black 
writes  for,   15. 

Good  Words,  Macleod  of  Dare 
published  in,  174;  'The 
Magic  Ink,"  appeared  in,  322. 

Graphic,  320. 

Gray,  David,  33. 

Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly, 
146,  150 ;  published  in  Ex- 
aminer,  156. 

Guide  to  Scotland,  Black  re- 
vises, 23. 

Hardy,  Mr.  Thomas,  323. 
Harper,  Messrs.,  153,  231,  252, 
316,  322-324  ;  Black  defends, 

323-  .     . 

Harper's  Magazine,  Description 
of  Paston  House,  199-204  ; 
Shandon  Bells  published  in, 
234,  252,  253  ;  Judith  Shake- 
speare published  in,  257,  264, 

307- 
Harte,  Mr.  Bret,  214,  215,  216, 
218,  226,  248,  264,  291,  301, 

315- 

Hay,  Mr.  John,  264. 

Hebrides  visited  by  Black,  104. 

Hedderwick,  Dr.   James,   15. 

Highland  Cousins,   304. 

Highlands,  Black  visits,  158— 
160. 

Hill,  Mr.  Frank,  67-70. 

House  -  boat,  Strange  Advent- 
ures of  a,  293. 

Hunter,  Mr.  Colin,  22,  130,  158, 


198,  199,  228,  330,  332,  337, 
347- 

In  Far  Lochaber,  296,  303,  309, 

316,  341,  342. 
Ingram,  Sir  William,  156. 
Ireland,  Black  visits,  227,  228. 
Italy,  Black  visits,  199. 

James  Merle,  description  of, 
23-29;   Black  not  proud  of, 

39,  342. 
Judith  Shakespeare,  256;  pub- 
lished in  Harper's  Magazine, 
257,  264,  307. 

Kilmeny,  63,  66,  71. 
King,  Mr.  Clarence,  264. 
Kinsmen  Society,  312. 
Kipling,  Mr.  Rudyard,  323,  347. 
Kroeker,  Mr.,  179,  180. 
Kroeker,  Mrs.,  81-83,  91,  95,  99, 
102,  103,  109-113,  237. 

Leeds  Mercury,  writes  for,  121, 
123 ;  resigns  post  as  London 
correspondent  to,  138. 

Leighton,    Sir   Frederick,    330, 

333- 
Lockyer,  Sir  Norman,  218,  225, 

226,  228,  236,  239,  241,  244, 

262. 
London    Review,    Black   edits, 

41. 
Love  or  Marriage,  61—63,  32^- 

McArthur,    Mr.    Lindsay,   325. 

McCarthy,  Mr.  Justin,  39,  55, 
109. 

Macdonald,  George,  223. 

Mcllvaine,  Mr.  C.  W.,  328,  347. 

Macleod  of  Dare,  173  ;  publish- 
ed in  Good  Words,  174  ;  illus- 
trated as  a  compliment  by 
famous  artists,  175,  176. 

Macmillan's  Magazine,  The 
Strange  Adventures  of  a 
Phaeton  published  in,  96 ; 
Princess  of  Thule  published 


351 


INDEX 


in,  113;  Madcap  Violet  pub- 
lished in,  141. 

McVean,  Barbara,  claims  Black 
as  a  nephew,  107,  108. 

Madcap  Violet,  hero  of,  9  ; 
scenes  painted  in,  101 ;  pub- 
lished in  Macmillan's  Maga- 
zine,  141. 

"  Magic  Ink,  The,"  short  story 
in  Good  Words,  322. 

Marston,  Mr.  Robert,  on  Black 
as  a  fly-fisher,  260,  261,321, 

334,  344- 
Maurier,  George  Du,  297,  300. 
Memorial    beacon    to    William 

Black,  348. 
Minto,  Professor,  57,  328. 
Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane,  71. 
Morning  Star,  Black  joins,  39. 
Morten,  Miss,  228,  272,  307,  332. 
Morten,  Mr.  J.  G.,  5,  126,  127, 

258,  333,  347- 
Mudford,  Mr.,  226. 

New  Prince  Fortunatus,  304, 
310,  320. 

Once  a  Week,  Black  contributes 

to,  36,  38. 
Osborne,  Mr.  Bernal,  130,  134. 
Osgood,  Mr.  J.  R.,  252,  311,  312, 

314,  3:5,  317,  3I9~322,  326. 

Pall  Mall  Club,  130. 
Parsons,  Mr.  Alfred,  292,  294, 

314,  330,  334- 

Paston  House,  description  of, 
199-204. 

Payn,  James,  130-134. 

Pettie,  R.  A.,  Mr.  John,  paints 
Black  as  a  seventeenth-cen- 
tury knight,  156,  199,  328, 
330. 

Phillips,  Mr.  Halliwell,  256,  257. 

Princess  of  Thide,  A,  published 
in  Macmillan's  Magazine,  113  ; 
dedicated  to  his  wife,  119. 

Prussian  and  Austrian  War, 
45,  46. 


Reform  Club,  Black  joins  the, 

129 ;  last  visit  to,  345. 
Reid,    Sir   Wemyss,    120,    136, 

137,  142,  143,  156,  157,   179, 
215-217,  224,  239,  264,  288, 

319,  329,  347- 
Robinson,   Sir  John,   68,   338, 

347- 
Rosebery,  Lord,  222,  2^2. 

Sabina  Zembra,  296,  297. 

Saturday  Review  and  Black,  2, 
3 ;  praises  A  Daughter  of 
Heth,  84,  85. 

Scotland,  Black  visits,  160-- 
172. 

Senior,  Mr.  William,  reminis- 
cences of  Black,  59,  60. 

Shandon  Bells,  Barry  hero  of, 
69,  226,  233;  published  in 
Harper's  Magazine,  234,  252, 

253- 

Shepard,  Mr.,  214,  215. 

Silk  Attire,  In,  62,  63,  71. 

Simpson,  Miss,  101,  102,  no, 
129. 

Simpson,  Mr.  Wharton,  101, 
no. 

Spencer,  Mr.  Herbert,  204,  231. 

Stand  Fast,  Craig- Roy ston  ! 
304,  310. 

Stewart,  Professor  Grainger, 
244. 

Strange  Adventures  of  a  House- 
boat, Miss  Mary  Anderson 
heroine  of,   293,  303. 

Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phae- 
ton, 91-95;  published  in 
Macmillan's  Magazine,  96 ; 
Miss  Simpson  heroine  of,  101  ; 
gains  for  Black  sympathy 
and  admiration  of  artists,  98, 

99- 

Stronelairg,  Black  visits,  238  ; 

described   in    Yolande,    242— 

244. 
Sunrise,  213,  223,  234. 
Swinburne,  Mr.,  57,  142,  306. 
Switzerland,  Black  visits,  118. 


352 


INDEX 


That  Beautiful  Wretch,  228. 
The  Handsome  Humes,  304. 
The  Penance  of  John  Logan, 

3»4»  305,  306. 
Three   Feathers,    published    in 

Cornhill  Magazine,  135. 
Toole,  231. 

United     States,    Black     visits, 
146-150. 

Valentine  to  "  W.  B.,"  112. 

War  between  Prussia  and  Aus- 
tria, 45-47- 
Watt,  Mr.,  305. 
Wenzel,  Miss  Augustus,  42—44. 
Whitefriars  Club,  59. 
White  Heather,  257. 

23 


White  Wings,  180;  published  in 
Cornhill  Magazine,  196,  197. 

Whyte,  Mr.  John,  19-22,  26, 
28,  40,  42,  52-54,  65,  178,  218. 

Wild  Eehn,  304,  336,  343. 

Williams,  Mr.,  36,  43,  44,  54,  93, 
94,  3*8- 

Wilson,  Mr.  E.  D.  J.,  reminis- 
cences of  Black  by,  48—52, 
58,  70,    130,   160-172,  347. 

"With  the  Eyes  of  Youth," 
Black's,  344. 

Wolfenberg,  304,  327. 

Wombwell,    Sir    George,    214. 

Yolande,  extract  from,  242, 243  ; 

first  published  in  Illustrated 

London  News,  254. 
Young,  Mr.  Russell,   152. 


THE  END 


By  WILLIAM  BLACK 


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THEIR  SILVER  WEDDING  JOURNEY.    Two  Volume  IU'd 
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RAGGED  LADY.    A  Novel.     $1  75. 

THE  STORY  OP  A  PLAY.     A  Novel.     $1  50. 

THE  LANDLORD  AT  LION'S  HEAD.     A  Novel.     Illustrated. 

$175. 
MY  LITERARY  PASSIONS.     $1  50. 
THE   DAY   OP  THEIR  WEDDING.     A  Story.      Illustrated 

by  T.  de  Thulstrup.     $1  25. 

A  TRAVELER  PROM  ALTRURIA.     A  Romance.    $1  50. 

THE  COAST  OP  BOHEMIA.    A  Novel.     Illustrated.    $1  50. 

THE  WORLD  OF  CHANCE.     A  Novel.    $1  50. 

ANNIE  KILBURN.     A  Novel.     $1  50. 

AN  IMPERATIVE  DUTY.    A  Novel.     $1  00. 

AN    OPEN-EYED    CONSPIRACY.      An    Idyl   of    Saratoga. 
$100. 

THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY.     A  Novel.     $1  50. 

A  HAZARD  OF  NEW  FORTUNES.    A  Novel.    Two  Volumes. 
$2  00. 

APRIL  HOPES.     A  Novel.     $1  50. 

THE  SHADOW  OF  A  DREAM.     A  Story.    $1  00. 

MODERN   ITALIAN   POETS.     Essays  and  Versions.     With 
Portraits.     $2  00. 

THE  MOUSE-TRAP,  and  Other  Farces.    Illustrated.    $1  00. 


IMPRESSIONS  AND  EXPERIENCES.  Essays.  Post  8vo, 
Cloth,  Ornamental,  Uncut  Edges  and  Gilt  Top,  $1  50. 

STOPS  OF  VARIOUS  QUILLS.  Poems.  Illustrated  by 
Howard  Pyle.  4to,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  Uncut  Edges  and 
Gilt  Top,  $2  50.  Limited  Edition  on  Hand-made  Paper,  signed 
by  Author  and  Artist,  $15  00. 


By  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS—  Continued. 

CRITICISM  AND  FICTION.  With  Portrait.  16mo,  Cloth, 
$1  00. 

A  PARTING   AND   A   MEETING.      A   Story.      Illustrated. 

Square  32mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 

CHRISTMAS  EVERY  DAY,  and  Other  Stories.  Illustrated. 
Post  8vo,  Clotb,  $1  25. 

A  BOY'S  TOWN.    Illustrated.    Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 

In  Harper's  "Black  and  White  Series" : 

MY  YEAR  IN  A  LOG  CABIN.  Illustrated.  32mo,  Cloth,  50 
cents. 

A  LITTLE  SWISS  SOJOURN.  Illustrated.  32mo,  Cloth,  50 
cents. 

FARCES  :  A  Likely  Story— The  Mouse-Trap— Five  o'Clock 
Tea — Evening  Dress — The  Unexpected  Guests — A  Letter 
op  Introduction — The  Albany  Depot — The  Garroters. 
Illustrated.     32mo,  Cloth,  50  cents  each. 

Paper-  Covered  Editions  : 

A  Previous  Engagement.  Illustrated.  50  cents.— A  Travel- 
er from  Altruria.  50  cents.— The  World  of  Chance.  60 
cents. — The  Quality  of  Mercy.  75  cents. — An  Imperative 
Duty.  50  cents. — Annie  Kilburn.  75  cents. — April  Hopes. 
75  cents. — A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes.  Illustrated.  $1  00. 
—The  Shadow  of  a  Dream.    50  cents. 

Mr.  Howells  knows  how  to  give  life  and  actuality  to  his  characters. 
He  seems,  indeed,  to  be  presenting  us  with  a  series  of  portraits. — 
Speaker,  London. 

He  is  one  of  the  authors  whom  we  delight  to  read,  and  it  is  a  great 
pleasure  to  take  up  a  book  without  a  suspicion  or  a  desire  to  criticise, 
knowing  that  you  will  begin  all  right,  go  on  all  right,  and  come  out  all 
right.— iV.   Y.  Herald. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  Publishers 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 

'Any  of  the  above  works  will  be  sent  by  mail,  postage  prepaid, 
to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of 
the  price. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


,,    DK-S-A9W 


LOAN 


So 


^1 t0^ 


HtCD  LD-URC 

JUNO  3 1988 


Form  L9-Series  444 


AA    000  365  838    2 


3  1158  01263  5412 


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